Firestarter
by kwisatzhaderach015
Summary: The Inquisition assumed Trevelyan was helping out of good character and a sense of duty. The Inquisitor liked it that way, but beneath all the Herald and "hero", lay a cold-blooded murderer and an ambitious ruler. The Inquisition just stoked the flames out of embers long dead and cold, and the mage wouldn't rest untill all Thedas is consumed by fire and re-forged in a new form.
1. The Abyss

"I sort of didn't get along with her, unfortunately", the words rolled off his tongue, unsuprevised by reason for the first time in many years. Detachedly, a split second after the last syllable of "unfortunately" hung in the air, Zarreth Trevelyan wondered if it was that the subject still touched him, after all. Fade damn it all, how could he just tell her that! How could he let it loose!

"Oh", Vivienne pursed full lips in a thinly veiled pout, her dark eyes suddenly cold and calculating as she straightened her back. Zarreth returned the stare, calling onto the shreds of the famous nobleman ice, a bored indifference to small matters - hoping his face was blank and slack as it was supposed to be. "It's a shame... she was killed by her own student, in the wake of this foolery".

Even when faced with a rage demon or a lyrium-drunk templar, Zarreth didn't feel the edge of the knife he was walking upon with such clarity as he did when standing in the dim-lit Chantry alcove and talking to First Enchanter Vivienne about... well, _trivial_ things, where they, courteous chatter to know the other a bit closer? This had to be the part of the fabled Orlesian Great Game, but he knew nothing of it, and only his own wit and gut to stand up to this woman's piercing gaze. Ah, the Circle robbed him of many things, leaving him but with a smothered memory of what it had been to be – an heir, a power, a voice.

How much did she read in him, she - the queen bee of palace intrique and Val Royeaux politics, a mage that survived the tenets of the nastiest court in the history of Thedas and the dangers of Divine's seat? Did she read his attempts to pull up a facade of ignorance? And if so - what will be next? Ah, she did stare at him so... minute wrinkles of suspicion pulling at the corners of slightly narrowing eyes, only to dissipate in a crushing smile.

"But, let's hope this Inquisition fixes all the mess with the least effort, right, dear?" Eyes warm caramel again, tone slick as honey. Bees have honey, but they harbor stings as well. "_Did she ask me this to gauge my reaction, talk about all this Circle and Inquisition business just to hurdle the question about Lydia when I got mellow and cosy in this conversation?_"

He mustn't panic. No. That would be the worst. That would be like just barging in the Council room and offering his neck to Cullen... or Cassandra.

He was sure Cassandra wouldn't be shattered, though. She'd take it is if she owned it in the beginning. The fire that would burn then – he couldn't even fathom it.

"I'll do everything in my power, Lady Vivienne", Zarreth smiled but felt the blade under his feet, and beyond it - a yawning abyss. "We all would".


	2. The Legend

It took a wooden tub filled to the brim with hot, fragrant water that Vela brought from the spring, to let his mind off Vivienne a bit. Zarreth sunk in, easing the bruised flesh into the warmth little by little, watching splotches of dirt peel off and merge with the clear water. Come and gone, and the water was yet clean. If only the same applied to...

"Maker's breath, Varric! You could at least knock!"

"Sorry, _Your Worship_, but you got to see this! Beran, you know — that greasy, smug Antivan knob, he just returned from Nevarra – and remember, he's working for me, well you could call it work, but hey, it's complex, but that's not the point", he shoved a parchment into Zarreth's hand. The mage took a second to wipe it on the bathing rag he had been clutching, and then squinted at the calligraphy.

"Sommerhelm Weirbach... Hargreave and Roverick Sons... deal...Tale of the Champion... approved... recommended title "Conquering Qun"" he muttered under his breath. "Does this mean-?"

"Yes", Varric leaned in, elegantly plucking the letter out of Zarreth's grasp. "Hargreave wants to spread the second book, next Nubulis, leather-bound and embossed, all eight chapters. In the best markets of Seheron, Antiva, Orlais... maybe even these rustic wilds, why not? Full of envy yet?"

Zarreth nodded, happy to share the dwarf's enthusiasm and pride. He grinned tauntingly at Varric.

"I guess the reason that you've broke my door was that Cassandra, the only poor soul in Haven caring for your writing exploits, would tear all your hair out – and I mean, _everywhere_, Varric – if she knew it's this, and not another _Swords and Shields_?"

"You're wrong, Herald... She'd love it".

"I don't love it that you apparently just got acquainted with the idea of privacy", the mage grabbed the wash-rag and sunk lower in the tub, hasty to cover the whip-marks on his back. The water was getting cold and the least thing he needed, was Varric's pity and loose tongue.

Varric shrugged, folding and tucking the letter back under the lapel of his coat.

"Besides, there's hardly any epiphany there. Remember how Sera hid your underpants in the kennel, and..."

"I can _hardly_ forget", Zarreth hissed back. "So much for the "Herald of Andraste".

Shaking his head in mock disapproval, Varric grabbed a chair and situated himself besides the wooden tub, ignoring the obvious discomfort it was causing the other man, who's black and blue knees floated about the soapy water.

"Buttercup is just confused. She sees a Herald, and then she sees a nobleman. Your way of speaking is too much for her, albeit pointy, ear sensitivity", he consoled.

Zarreth pointed a finger at Varric's chest, at the letter hidden beneath the coat.

"Speaking of that, I remember you telling me that was the case with the Champion".

The dwarf regarded him with a long – and misplaced – look of consideration, rubbed at his chin and then sagged in the chair, exhaling loudly. He considered his next words, almost stopping himself from uttering them – but then, seeing the exhausted, scarred face of his companion, the faint shadow of anger hid upon it in the steaming vapor, he spoke.

"You know that our Lady Seeker kept me as sort of a personal prisoner, right?"

"Of course. Because of Kirkwall", Zarreth's eyes narrowed, a flickering reflection of the hearth's fire playing in the red of his sclera. "Or was it for, ah, other..."

"Indeed. She wanted to know about the Champion... The Chantry and all. Because the written tale, of course, distorts the reality, not unlike that cursed Breach above our cursed heads" Varric paused. The Inquisitor seemed hooked enough, and it was always pleasing. He continued. "The story I told to the Seeker was very close to the truth I've seen. The _Tale of the Champion_ held back a lot".

The dwarf clasped his hands beneath his chin, elbows perched on knees. His gaze was oddly serious for Zarreth, as if the man suddenly woke up from mind-bend spell. He could sense that Varric was struggling internally about spilling his guts to him, and there was a conscious effort not to. The mage was intrigued.

"The Champion was a mage. An apostate. Of course, given this whole war thing, I couldn't just go out and write the _Deal in Darktown_ with a mage hero – eh, the Chantry would banish it and I'd end up in less loving hand's, than the Seekers. So it's not in the book. And probably won't be".

Zarreth's entire being locked solid. "_How much was kept from us? How long we've walked in the dark and told ourselves that it's the Maker's light?_"

"And then, the Hero of Ferelden? Mage as well, taken by the Wardens from his Circle. That is a known fact – a known fact that's barely ever brought up, hah!", Varric smirked. "Bards and tavern drunks across Thedas would have you think that Hawke was as much of Andraste's chosen as you are now".

"You're telling me this why?" Zarreth drawled dispassionately, rubbing the wet cloth a shoulder, feigning disinterest. "Now, out of all times?"

Varric got up, patted himself on the knees in an endearing, confused gesture.

"You thought the case with the Champion was that he was seen as a savior for Kirkwall and then, he missed a mage rebellion under his nose. But, the truth was, he was partially behind it, just not as crazy as that blighted An...Yeah. That was a worse situation. You have it better, your Holy Heraldness. Don't mope. I saw the face you made when you walked out the Chantry yesterday – I thought all the ice would melt across the Frostbacks".

The mage couldn't help but chuckle at the dwarf's abrasiveness. It was a welcome difference from all the high opinions and values most other people harbored – Varric had a blunt side to him, delivered in the wrapping of biting wit and sarcasm.

"The Commander tries my patience every day. Feels like good old Circle days, Varric".

"And how did that go?"

"Let me piss you off until you go all abomination in the Grand Auditorium". Anyway, thrilled for the book".

"You better be".


	3. The Whisper

Danger. When one had lived with it, gnawing deep into their bones from the earliest day of waking life, it often lost its edge, it's realness. Common sense warped around it, muffling the incessant, grating noise at the back of one's head - and senses dulled, tricked by the haze of inaction.

Zarreth twirled the lyrium ring around his finger, hissing quietly from pain as the metal came into contact with flaking skin. Body curled around the cold marble ridges of an alcove, he peeked into the tower's fourth-floor corridor - fire danced and beated againt the massive bronze sconces that adorned the hallway, casting confusing shadows unto the stone.

Danger. When it lurked behind someone for so long, almost, but - ah, not yet! - visible in the corner of the eye, how was it possible to not give in it's lull, to believe it would always be that way, that it won't pounce at your back? No. One day, you'll believe, you'll believe the mocking whispers of safety, hasty to throw off the impossible, lifelong burden and melt into the first ever embrace of relaxation. Then - and Zarreth knew it - the masks would come off, barring the true interior of the fiend, the treacherous hand and the lack of remorse.

He knew... but he almost forgot.

The ring was simple. A thin, slightly raised, band of lyrium-infused silver. A rite of passage. There was cruel irony in the fact that it was a templar, who handed the ring to him as another helped him to his feet, to regain dignity while the First Enchanter Yren tried to wipe vomit off his robes. Well, of course. Zarreth didn't forget to remember who he was and why he was a whom in the face of a twisted spirit in the Fade,  
but he almost forgot about the danger.

The Ostwick enchanters always acted as if the Harrowing was a great deal, but even the apprentices knew it held no significance these dark days. The ring was a piece of nugskin thrown to a starving dog, a half-hearted effort of appeasment, and only the older mages tried to pretend it was the Harrowing.

Zarreth laughed in the face of his demon, hoping that his maddened, fennec-like squeals didn't reach the other, physical side of the Fade.

What could the pitiful creature offer him to fix the smoldering pit he was cast in from birth? Could it grant him the wealth of House Trevelyan? The fiefdom and heritage that was denied to him in favor of rotting inside Ostwick Tooth, just miles away from the lush pleasantries of his mother's summer castle in Trod Marsh? The title of a Bann? The death of his younger brother, who was last year pronounced his father's inheritor? Or maybe hand of Lady Olanna Vales, whom, as Zarreth heard, was courted by the same old as well? No. It couldn't.

In fact, aside from the spirit's pathetic attempts to subvert him with stupid promises, it was less intimidating than anything else - the prospect of a ruined future, for example, the evening Chant after a watery meal, or, of course, a Templar's lash.

Zarreth rubbed at his face absent-mindedly, his nails finding and nicking the grooves in the skin of his cheeks, jaw, forehead... Definitely, he'd take meeting any Fade denizen for an appointment with a barbed, braided lash.

He felt no victory in passing the Harrowing two years ago. He vomited because of the lyrium, and the templars couldn't look less enthused about the feat, their faces showing clear distaste and disappointment in seeing "that Trevelyan bastard" slip from under the knife. Knight Isric was especially pissed at the outcome, probably having bragged to the rest of his watch about how he'll nail the git down, bringing his best Rivaini dagger to the Auditorium... and yet, for naught. Him, and Knight-Lieutenant Hadwell, and Jask, oh, they were so certain in his failure, ever since that day - the sullen, sour faces was the best reward he could dream of, aside from the First Enchanters spoiled clothes. Ah, the poetry of a enemy scorned, when you live to see the light of another moon...

But the killing blow came from elsewhere, because that was danger's nature, and Zarreth had no right to forget about it.

A flush of silk whipped around the corner. Zarreth tensed, drawing his legs up, splattering himself flat against the alcove, praying the Fade shadows to conceal him. A familiar face - two of them - appeared by the curve of the corridor, briskly streaming to the First Enchanter's chambers. Yren Gilsed, and... Senior Enchanter Lydia Rathmoore. Of course. The mage's lips thinned into a line, his jaws pressed together so hard, he could feel his teeth on the breaking point.

So, what Hivelskop and Fret told him, was true. Why would Lydia meet the First Enchanter in the dead of the night, like a spy, and...

Softly, Zarreth separated himself from the alcove wall, and dropped to the floor. Pain radiated from his back and legs where the lash left bleeding sores, hastily patched by the Phylacterium healer. The punishments were harsh these times. With lyrium shortages and rumors from Kirkwall spreading like fire, leaking even into such backwater establishments as the Tooth, all the Order could resort to was good, old, honest to Maker, preemptive phyisical torture. Keeping low to the floor, he half-scooted, half-crawled to the massive door, and pressed his ear close to a crack in the wood.

"...again. I've had more on my plate than ever, Lydia!" The First Enchanter sounded as defeated as ever. Zarreth smirked - that was an attitude more common in the Tooth than the supposed "motivation for knowledge".

"No. Serah, you just don't get it! The Templars... Knight-Sergeant Davian, he found the Manifesto in his possession! Manifesto, for Maker's sake!" Lydia panted, catching breath. "One burnt page, but if Knight-Commander goes through with it..."

"Why should he?"

"Look around us, serah Yren! It's not what it's used to be! Kirkwall, then, then these tales about the darkspawn in Free Marshes again, and the White Spire struggle! We can't let a single flame grow into a forest fire!"

Pause. Zarreth rolled his eyes at Lydia's metaphor.

"Wait a minute, Lydia. You're suggesting we should do this to our fellow mage, because he supposedly stored a copy of that apostate's manifesto? For the love of Andraste, we don't even know if it's real! It might be some dwarven cobbler getting his kicks after a pint of ale back at Nordend's Buck and selling this nonesense to impressionable apprentices!"

Zarreth could easily visualize Lydia pouting at this point, her plump arms folding at her chest like pieces of pretzel dough.

"The Order wants him, this way or another, for any reason".

"Trevelyan passed his Harrowing long ago", the First Enchanter parried. Zarreth felt a tinge of sorrow for the chained, restless man. Lydia was a tough nut, a loyalist to the core, with fear ingrained so deep in her being that it became her only solace. The world outside of the Circle terrified her.

"It doesn't matter", Lydia's voice rose an octave, the pitch annoyed and nasal, as she felt the older mage's resolve. "They want the lad for what he did to the Templars, and this is, of course, a good situation to get not only to him, but to all of us? How can you not see, that in these circumstances, where all of Thedas despises us like no time before, they could..."

"Right of Annulment. For a piece of paper, Lydia?"

The rustle of silk signified that the woman shook her head. Bile rose up Zarreth's throat, a loathing so intense and pure that his body shook as he fought to regain composure and not let the people the other side of the door detect a mana disruption.

"Master Yren. You know. The man... Zarreth... has trouble with his power, a power that is seen by the folk as one of the vilest. He may tell you he didn't want to burn Knights Levas and Hirrth, that it was an accidental surge, but he did, and I saw it. I saw their pain, and his delight - it was as deliberate as you can get. I've seen other instances, too. As you have".

"He'd always been bitter, has he." Master Yren murmured, almost the edge of Zarreth's ability to hear. "The nobles often are, plucked as they had been from a golden cage...".

"Yes. If it happened before the Harrowing, of course, no questions asked. But he became emboldened by it ever since. The Templars hate him, he hates them, and at this point, I doubt Trevelyan even cares what this other week, the day after Satinalia, I had an apprentice ask who was screaming beneath the floors, and what could I tell him - that his fellow mage got fifty sticks for telling a Templar he just brought his friend closer to Andraste - mad and crispy?"

Floorboards creaked. First Enchanter Yren seemed to have paced back and forth a few times. Zarreth listened on, breathless. Still, the recollection of the conversation with Jask almost tore a chuckle with him. It had been worth all the agony from the torture to see the Templar writhe in grief and anger. His back was soothed by the mere memory, the sting of air to exposed flesh a badge of honor... in a way.

"You were tasked to fix it".

"Yes, serah, but I can't. He doesn't seem keen on controlling his magic - that is", the Senior Enchanter made a choking sound, voice filled with distate. "If there's any problem with control. The Templars whisper. They will squash a rebellion, even an imaginative one, and Zarreth Trevelyan is as real as it gets".

"So, you think they'll use him as a cause, a reason to destroy the Circle?"

"I pray to the Maker, that it won't happen. But the Maker isn't one to answer us. Here, serah".  
What followed was a rustle of unfolding parchment. Yren coughed, once, twice.

"I'll... consider this. Thank you, Lydia".

"If you see the solution as I do, Master Yren, I'll gather the necessary orders in no time. The White Spire and the Chantry clerics will be notified about the ritual".

The First Enchanter drawed a long, hesitant breath.

"I do really hope that it's a solution as easy as this. But it seems more like staving off the inevitable".

"Rebellion isn't inevitable", there was danger in Lydia's voice, it dripped with it like poison off an Antivan Crow's dagger. "It only becomes such if you are lead to believe this way, First Enchanter".

As she pushed the heavy door aside, Lydia stopped for a second, the statuesque rigidness of her figure accentuated by the flow of rich velveteen robes. She turned her head to the corridor, now dark as the flames went out - strings of smoke still hung in the air.

She could swear she felt a presence. But there was none.


	4. The Courage

If not for the well of darkness that lazily rumbled in the heavens above, the morning Cassandra Pentaghast woke would have been full of the untouched, pristine splendor that the Frostback Mountains had to offer on the break of Firstfall.

She stood by the entrance of her tent, cautiously inhaling the clear, crisp air and watching her breath waft away. The fresh snow creaked and glistened under the soldiers heels as they marched forward into the adjacent meadow for the daily routine and Cassandra followed their progression. It snowed the night before, but today the clouds cleared, and sun poured down, setting the ice and stone of the Haven's fort ablaze in a radiant, joyful light.

The Seeker felt the familiar swelling of belief-bourne hope in the pit of her stomach and chest, and looking at the tents, the golden stalks of grass waving gently above the snow, the rush of life as Haven's dwellers set to their tasks, she let that warmth persist. Yes, some of the soldiers would die. Maybe she would. But she couldn't let that ruin this glimpse at peace and content that she allowed to feel herself on such a bright morning. Maker's will, it was so.

Cassandra pulled a chain gauntlet over her leather glove. She ought to have hurried, as the training must have begun and she felt _right_, healed enough to join the others in the field.

Then, the Seeker looked up, and a frown formed on her face - a familiar figure cut through the Inquisition officers and Templar serfs that worked at the edge of the camp, head held high in search. Trevelyan... Andraste's Herald... mage, above all. The Herald offered a sharp nod to Cullen as the Commander stood picking a sword from the weapons rack, and then, turning to the side, finally spotted her, his lips streching in a smile.

Cassandra sighed. Training would wait.

"Cassandra", Zarreth stomped over, the flaps of his long coat dragging through mud and mushed snow.

"There you are!"

"I'm always here", she parried. "Well, almost".

"Ah. Looked for you in the Chantry, my mistake I guess. Up for training so soon, after the Mire?"

That sounded almost like concern, Cassandra mused. She kept silent, waiting for the usual sarcastic remark to follow, but Zarreth continued peering into her face intently, obviously expecting an answer. She held his still, wolfish gaze, then cocked her head to the side:

"I'm not the only one in need of training, Herald. You're still limping, and I can tell it's a fake".

"You're too cruel. Can't drop the act - Mother Giselle sneaks me some treats for it out of the kindness of her sould... and you know how I love dried, rotten fish".

The Seeker smiled curtly. "I'm flattered you take such keen interest in my health and the effects of poison, but I have a feeling you're just exchanging pleasantries".

Zarreth leaned in closer and grabbed the tent's frame with his hand, hunching over the Seeker, practically bathing her in his shadow. The gesture was intimidating, brash, but Cassandra learned to ignore it and stood firm. The pyromancer just wanted a sense of privacy, she surmised, as his voice dropped low.

"You are right. Can we talk inside?"

The tent's fabrick blocked light effectively, so Cassandra lit the hearth up again as she settled on the strewn furs. Zarreth sat down as well. His peculiar, yellow irises picked up the fire's glow immediately - two round coals burning emotionlessly in the shadows under the mage's cowl. The sight of that amber fire dancing upon a pale, gaunt face was uncomfortable, evoking a sense of dread in anyone who had ever had the unpleasant task of facing darkspawn. Then, the pyromancer took the hood off, and the effect vanished - for the most part, at least and much to the Seeker's content. Still, to this day, it unnerved Cassandra, the wrongess, unnaturalness of it, and the the Seeker wondered, if that had been an effect of magic, lyrium, or...

She offered him some ale, and poured it into a cup, which the man gladly accepted, picking up with the very tips of his cloth-wrapped fingers and sipping it from the edge child-like. Cassandra noticed his hands were bandaged almost up to the elbow again, and shook her head.

"Still no staff?" She asked, her eyes darting to the oiled-up bandages. She, better than many, knew that mages could conjure without the aid of staves, particularly elemental majicks. However, staves were a necessary point of focus, a lyrium-bound vessel that would channel the raw mana from the mage into a spellform, and drain the excess of power that could spill over and lose control. Some mages were harmed by their own magic, when spellcasting without a staff, and Zarreth was one of them. Fire, his beloved flames, burned him without mercy like it would any other man, when it passed through his hands.

"Harrit promised to forge one. He's got a lot of that to make, anyhow".

The tone with which the last phrase was uttered - slightly mischevious, yet with a hint of undercurrent malice, made the Seeker's ears perk up. A lot of staves, and how? Surely, that must mean...

"So, what is the purpose of your visit now, Herald?"

Zarreth carefully put the cup down on the rug. He smacked his lips, savouring the ginger taste, and then spoke.

"You know I'm honest with you, Cassandra", he rasped, keeping eyes low and focused on the mug. "And honestly, what I feel, is that noone is really happy with what I've did at Redcliffe. Particularly, Cullen. And you. And Mother Giselle. And the whole village, if we're at it with the exception of Varric and Lelliana, and of course, Dorian and Solas. Oh, and Vivienne - she loathes my guts, I can tell".

The mages he had brought with himself. As she suspected, a seed of discord that would soon bloom to the fullest. She had to reflect his boldness.

"You did what you could, who could blame you? I doubt that anyone could've done better, given your circumstances...", Cassandra poked the hearth with a stick, letting the warmth surge further. "It was expected".

"Expected?"

The Seeker's cheek twitched in a half-grin, the scar stretching along with the jest. Zarreth tore away from the cup and now looked at her with full attention.

"Well, I certainly didn't think even back in the Chantry, that you'd run to the Order asking for allegiance first. Doesn't mean it made me happy, the realization. But not surprised, no, Herald. That is why I supported your decision. The Templars could listen to me, or Cullen, but in the end, with your mark, you are as much of the Inquisition as we are... and they wouldn't have liked to deal with you. And with what you represent".

Slowly, Zarreth's hands balled into fists. He tilted his head. Cassandra was looking straight on him, face familiarly stern and solemn, almost as if beckoning him to lose his cool. What was he getting so angry about all a sudden?

"Interesting. So, essentially, your hand – and heart, were forced?", he asked. Cassandra shrugged.

"The Seekers, by their name, look for answers. If the bearer of the mark feels his ilk is better equipped to deal with the Breach, that provides the necessary insight for me to carry on with my duty. Still, mages should learn to feel as equals – and act the part, bear the associated responsibility. Even you, Herald, are not there yet", her light armor rustled. "That's what creates the difficulties here at Haven".

Was he not, truly? They had fought so many battles together, but Cassandra still had trouble figuring the Herald out. Was he Andrastian? Sure, he acted the part of the Maker's prophet, but there was little sincerity in it besides posturing, and she, having spent years in the holy cradle of the Chantry, could distinguish between true devotion and a clammy play. No. That was certain – the Herald didn't believe himself to be the prophet, and perhaps, didn't believe in Andraste as well. As for the Chantry... well, he was a rebel. The Ostwick Circle of Magi – the Tooth - was destroyed amongst the others, and it had seen Templars slaughtered by mages' hands. To rise a weapon against the Chantry's most devoted surely broke one's faith – and the rebellion itself proved to be a sign that whatever loyalty mages could've harbored towards the Chantry, their bitterness overpowered it. In a twist of fate, the Chantry sowed the seeds of its own despair.

And the bitterness was what worried Cassandra the most. The Herald was good at hiding it, too. Better than the rest, but still... She recalled the day when the first Rift had been sealed by his hand, how she held a dagger to his throat, and a mix of fear, confusion – and _hate_ – seethed off him in nearly physical waves as the man realized he was held at knifepoint by a member of the Order. His eyes fell on the flaming sword embossed into her chest-piece, and the man grimaced in pain and anger.

The Seeker, for all her immortalized bravery, never mustered herself to ask the mage of his involvement in the war before the Temple of Sacred ashes. In return, he'd been obscure as well – a negotiator from the apostates that were stationed in Tantervale, but he never spoke of a personal reason to be there. Sure, he was loudly and visibly anti-Circle and pro-mage liberation, much to the chagrin of most their associates, but the Herald seemed to think that was a logical path for a former Circle mage, that needed no further explanation. Perhaps, and Cassandra struggled to be honest with herself, she hesitated because she didn't want to hear the answer. Feared it. Sometimes, their eyes would cross, and she would catch a glimpse of something akin to hunger, lurking below the mage's visage.

For all she knew, and Commander Cullen agreed, the Herald had been trained a battlemage – a common path for spellcasters gifted with pyromancy. That was were the danger had been present, and now heightened to a tension not even the man could ignore.

Behind the unassuming exterior, the Herald was a Circle-trained mage that passed his Harrowing: a man educated not only in spells and conjuring, but in history, politics and war-mongering. And religion. Trevelyan wasn't a cowering healer, or a disinterested historian, that would have to been pressured, forced and bargained into the Inquisition, some meek robe that would fade into the background. They had the chance to acquire a sedate, wisened Herald apt at defense, but what they got was a man who found pleasure in battle, no matter how unprepared and exhausted he was for it.

Maybe, it was for the worst.

There was a frightening ease in the way Trevelyan accepted his position and the whole notion of the Inquisition. Even though he heard little of it before, it hadn't stopped the Herald from doing what any good Circle mage does – study, and she often saw his slightly hunched figure linger in the Chantry's library, reading and making notes, asking the Mothers and clerics for things he didn't understand. That meant, that inevitably he got to the core of what the Inquisition was in the Ancient age. A _mage-hunting_ organisation. Yet, the Herald took this role up, and surprisingly, proved to be quite capable as a tactician, offering advice sound even for Cullen's taste. For Cassandra, the transition was too abrupt, too artificial for a man to go from a frightened prisoner into feeling himself as a rightful leader. Something didn't add up. Yes, he slipped there and then into uncertainty and anger, like this moment, but overall, he seemed pretty confident amongst the Inquisitorial forces. Whatever troubled him, was barely seen, hidden inside a commonly upbeat, if sarcastic, shell. But it was there - a feeling of danger emanating, like smoke from a bonefire, which she couldn't shake off or silence.

"_Imagine, Cassandra. Imagine an Inquisition – in name, not form! - controlled by a rebel mage. Forged by a mage into something entirely else, entirely alien. Why else would he recruit the apostates, if not for a goal that we're just too blind to see yet?_", that's what Cullen had hissed in her ear after the Herald left their meeting. She couldn't get the words out of her head. Treachery was nothing new. Plans within plans – like that time, with Frenic, and the traitor Knight-Commander, their hopes to assassinate Justinia with dragons. Yet, she and the Herald both saved each others backs... without her ever feeling safe at all.

And no sense in denying that Trevelyan's actions changed the Inquisition every time, and changed how both the common folk and the ones in power perceived it.

"Difficulties. Hm, I see", the Herald's eyes briefly narrowed in a flash of rage, but it lasted just second as he composed himself. The mage seemed to notice Cassandra's stiff posture, and squeezed a cold chuckle from his thin-lipped scowl. "I like pretty names for ugly things. By the way, it's Zarreth, not Herald, Cassandra. Zar-reth. Pretty name too, don't you think?"

Lady Seeker poured herself some ale. _In the morning, Cassandra!_, she chided herself, but couldn't help doing something to avoid the awkward conversation.

"Zarreth. Actually", she motioned with the mug. "Isn't that a Nevarran name?"

The Herald nodded.

"Our House has some ties on Lady Lucielle's side with Nevarran nobility. Can't really recall our family's hereditary tapestry, for obvious reasons. But it's there, I heard... We might even be relatives. Distant ones", he added in a sly drawl.

That could have been true. Josephine had mentioned to her the same, and at times, she could catch the glimpses of Nevarra in the mage – or maybe because she didn't know what a Trevelyan should be?

For a noble, Zarreth was a haggard wreck. Little remained of the veneer the mage may once have had. "_You've never really been to a Circle, did you, Cassandra?_", he had asked her some time ago, before they ventured to Val Royeaux. The Herald wanted to stay in Haven – he was afraid and ashamed, and most of all, reluctant to venture anywhere near the seat of the Templar Order and a Chantry. The mage's question was left unanswered, by both of them. Cassandra realized that he wanted to communicate a terror before what was supposedly done to him and what could have been done, but she gave it little thought – until now. No, she hadn't. She glimpsed just brief scenes of life in the Circle, when official visits and investigations were in-bound, but where they the full picture? They were not, and she knew this because it was her duty to.

Whatever that life was, it had left its toll. Trevelyan was in his mid-twenties, but malnourishment made him appear older as the mage's sallow skin stretched uncomfortably tight unto his bones.

Cassandra had seen little of Zarreth's body beside his calloused, thin hands, and at times, her mind would wander in places...what could be under those heavy, layered robes. Constant fasting, stress and physical exertion should've made the mage wiry – a skeleton wrapped in muscle ropes. "Gluttony leads to excess, and excess birth's arrogance – a leeway to Pride", the Chant said. Only now, weeks after the Conclave, the mage began gaining meat unto his lithe frame, revealing a commoner, crude complexion of his narrow facial features – more of a Templar's bastard sword-bearer, than a Bann's own blood. No hawkish noses or chiseled chins for the Maker's loyal to put into stone.

His fingernails were dirty and splintered, the clothing usually ill-fitting, and the mage kept his black hair cropped army-short, if only to conceal bald patches on the scalp that were either burned-through or eaten by acid. The Herald looked like he had crawled from Denerim's slums to rob and pillage wealthy merchants - only an expression and mannerisms of stubborn, fierce pride, that sometimes overtook the man, brought back a shadow of a noble ancestry.

And then... If Lady Montilyet had been correct, the Trevelyan family was tied with the Chantry, pious and devout, with many of the House's sons and daughter giving their lives to the Chant and Order around Thedas. What did they feel when one of their own turned out a spellbind? What did he make of it, being a disappointing seed, cast down to drudge through life as a pariah? Cassandra could put herself in Zarreth's shoes way too easy for her liking there.

"I'd rather we not", Cassandra scoffed. "So, Herald... Zarreth. Your concern is?"

"Trust", the word left the mage's mouth too easily, carelessly. "Trust... and ale... and staves. Not dragon's blood and virgins, assure you".

The way he extended himself to the apostates was admirable. Zarreth held the cup to the air in mock cheer, but Cassandra found herself unable to recuperate the jest. She stood up, pointing the mage to the exist. Chin up, hard-faced, she managed to handle the request with enough grace.

"Trust requires effort from both sides, Herald, as I've said before. Everything else – of course. Cannot promise you Cullen's acceptance of all your decisions, he's his own man, but try to hear my words as well. Talk the talk and walk the walk – the apostates as well. Courage is a Maker's gift free of payment.".

Mirroring her, Zarreth got up as well, neck crooked in a halfhearted bow. In the tired slump of his shoulders, the Seeker saw the echo of a healing injury, but decided against of helping the man out, not to hurt his pride. Half-out of the tent, Zarreth paused at the entrance, turning his head back to Cassandra, his figure an inky cutout in the streaming daylight

"You know, bravery is good when it's possible, easily so. Can I ask a question?"

Mages were studious indeed, and now, it was Zarreth who studied Cassandra intently. She felt like a book of forbidden spells that caught the eye of a mischievous apprentice.

"Of course".

"The scar", Trevelyan motioned over his chin, alluding to the Seeker's face. "Does it have a grand story? Where did you get it?"

Absentmindedly, Cassandra brushed a raven strand of hair from her face, touching the cheek in the process. Her hazel eyes darkened in recollection, and even though she remained calm, the agitation was clear for the mage to see.

"Yes. It was in Orlais... Not long before I was pronounced the Divine's right hand. A traitor left his mark", she announced roughly.

"So, in battle?"

"Right".

Zarreth straightened out as if he swallowed a staff. An inappropriately wide and mirthless grin split his face, skin pulling at the network of pale scar tissue that was scattered about his visage. For the longest time Cassandra tried to block out his disfigurement out of his mind, but now, with that pinpoint question, he brought the matter to bear. She exhaled, steeling herself for something unpleasant.

"Well, I recieved mine while standing on my knees in a cell", the mage remarked, his tone flat.

He walked out, words trailing after him, caught in the frozen, glittering ice dust that gushed about in the wind.

"Don't worry. I'll learn to conduct myself as worthy of respect".


	5. The Kind of Man

Like any other human - or non-human, for that matter - Zarreth had nightmares. After the Conclave, they've ripened to full-on night terrors.

In the dreams, in these whispers of the Fade, reality distorted into ugly doppelgangers, past mushed together into new twisted forms. One appeared particularly often. In the dream, the gruesome landscape of the Temple of the Sacred ashes, with its molten human carcasses and red lyrium growths, transported itself into the hall of the Circle Tower during the Tooth's downfall. Both atrocities where he had played his part entangled, with the human-flesh statues substituting the charred remains that had been there before.

They sang to him – the people, the crystals, and their horrid, but beautiful unity. And his companions were there, observing the battleground in shock, their eyes hardening in realization that it was him all along, and not just the Circle, but the Conclave and the Divine.

Zarreth just stood there gripping onto his staff, smothered by the thick, viscous air, the oily ash from burnt flesh clinging to his skin. The silent accusation physically weighed down on him, crushing his chest and throat.

"I didn't do that. I'm not that kind of a person!" he desperately wanted to say. "It hadn't been me!" But they all - the blackened corpses, shifting subtly to stare at im with empty eye sockets, his new companions, his friends - knew he was lying. Something will be done to him as punishment. Something terrible beyond his imagination... unless he strikes first.

"I'm not that kind of a man!" the mage attempted to cry out, but instead of words, dragon's breath would come out, spilling liquid fire from his mangled throat.

When he woke up, he faced the fact that he was exactly _that_ kind of a man.


	6. The Lyrium

Commander Cullen made a fair share of decisions that came to haunt him later in life. He tainted his future, not without the help of many enemies, sure – and he gave himself to the grim understanding that full, honest to the Maker, peace, was not possible for him. Now, having a sorceror lead their way, made the situation all the more difficult, tearing him apart between duty and a habit of scornful distrust.

Things were rough between the two men from the start - neither trusted each other, or even tried to. They had been forced to work side by side by grave circumstance, and took it up begrudgingly. While Trevelyan mustered to gather all of his non-existent aristocracy charm and manners around Leliana, Cassandra and other Chantry women, he made no effort whatsoever to get on the Commander's good side. At best, Zarreth was polite - at worst, he insolent, offensive and provoking. Sparks went flying over the war table, and the meeting prior to the Herald's journey to Redcliffe was heated enough to place them a hair-away from a full-on fight.

Cullen watched the mage plow the snow from Cassandra's tent and to the Haven's gate, cowl pulled far over his head. He wondered what the Herald might want from the Lady Seeker, but the answer floated on the surface - in fact, it was right before him, in the smaller cloth-built tents at the side of the soldier's camp, where the Redcliffe mages took refuge in. Trevelyan must've asked for additional favors for his ilk from the Seeker. Cullen winced as if in pain, the faint tingle of dread tugging at his innards. Having so much unfamiliar, unknown robes, high on freedom or what they thought of as freedom...There was a disaster in the making. They better start approaching the templars at Therinfal now, or...

The ex-Templar grabbed a passing recruit by the shoulder: "Tell Dravidus I'll be back in a few minutes", and set after the mage.

"Herald", Zarreth felt a heavy metal gauntlet dig into his shoulder and turned to face none other than Commander Cullen, throat draped in lush fur, gold glinting on the armor edges. He slouched under the grip, expertly twisting out of it. Being touched is one thing, but by a Templar? All of Zarreth's being shrunk and shuddered against the touch that evoked too much recollections to bear.

"Commander", he mirrored, composing himself.

"I see you're in a hurry, a couple of minutes to spare?" Cullen diplomatically waved his hand forward, beckoning the mage to walk past the merchants cart into a neat little niche between the village's stone wall and a dilapidated provisions shed, away from the street and it's people. Zarreth glared at him suspiciously, but followed, sneaking behind the building away from the curious eyes of Haven's denizens.

"I just wanted to ask about Therinfal", Cullen cut straight to business as Trevelyan leaned against the snow-covered stone, hands folded in front of him defensively. "How... How's the progress on it?"

"I've put all of my Houses's seals on Josephine's letters", came the dry reply.

"And the proceedings to talk sense into Lord Seeker's minds are still in their infancy. Seems like you're not very interested, Herald - I want to see it move quicker, so that the nobles don't have time to slip out of the agreements. Or you think the apostates will be more than enough? That we-we'll manage to close the the Breach with the help of the people who yesterday r-ran around the woods attacking refugees?"

Zarreth offered Cullen a sour smile in return.

"Well, _you_ are very interested in dragging the bloody Templars here, Cullen, I see. Such impatience", he said pointedly. "Personally vested, are we? Afraid of abominations and demons running amok?"

The mage broke off the wall, moving closer to Cullen, his movements stiff, but strangely mechanic as he stalked forward to meet the other man face to face. There had been a difference in height, but the mage seemed to mind it not - all of his being spoke of a challenge to the ex-templar.

Cullen reminded himself, that the Herald wasn't a freshly-made apostate mage. It had been months into the rebellion of the Ostwick Tooth before the Conclave was called for, and that Circle's "break" was a bloodbath. Whatever timidness around the Order members the mage may have had, a lot of it shaved off in the time that had passed.

"Or no... I'm wrong... It's not the purported danger...", Zarreth craned his head forward a bit, nostrils flaring when he tried to sniff some smell around Cullen's body. "It's something else. Hm. Lyrium, right, Commander? That's what the Order brothers are needed here, ahah. You just want to see some from afar, feel it's aroma, just a smidgen, a single to-"

"Silence!"

That was stepping over the edge. Such a direct insult was not something Cullen could tolerate, not from a spellbind. All of his suppressed loathing and distrust, that boiled slowly under the surface, rippled through at the haughty words of the Herald. He dared mock him! Dared to suggest, right at his face, that he is doing something for personal gain!

Zarreth, on the other hand, delighted in seeing the man get rocked out of his balance. There was a certain appeal to it, like poking a bear with a stick - he was never been able to fight the temptation to piss a bucket-head off. The giddy feeling mixed with just the right, spicy-sharp pinch of fear, and now...

The mage's head collided with granite with a dull thud. Dark flashes from the collision filled his sight and Trevelyan felt himself being hauled up by the lapels of his coat against the wall. Disoriented, Zarreth fumbled around his belt pouches, trying to drag a knife out of the sheath when Cullen bashed him against the wall once more, sending the blade flying to the ground. The mage yelled, and kicked out with both legs, a dirty move no doubt learned in the tight corridors of the Ostwick Tower – Cullen was prepared and avoided it, slamming his forearm against his opponent's throat, and then latching unto the undercoat's collar to immobilize the mage. Zarreth glowered at him, eyes burning dark with confused ire.

The Commander's face, usually so void of strong emotion, congealed into a mask of utter disdain and fury, his resolution ebbing fast as his free hand gripped unto the sword's hilt by his side. "_None of them are different, nestled snakes, the whole lot!_". Some smaller part of his mind, not inflamed by a misplaced desire for revenge, pulled at him to stop while the bonds were still salvageable.

"Khuu...What's the matter, Cullen?" Zarreth hissed through pain and a bruised throat, bucking against his own fear. "Your little tricks not working without that Fade-blessed dust?"

"Don't need them. Now, H-Herald... had it come down to this? I can report this to the Chantry, mage. That you're trying to sabotage the Inquisition. Do you?" He shook the smaller man like a mabari hound locked teeth-deep into a rat. He was still as intimidating to the robes as he was back in the Order and the flash of terror that crossed the Herald's face was proof of that. Mages never forgot what it was, to feel their mana drain, their being crushed by the force of silencing or smite. There was a grim satisfaction in finally letting his reigns go.

Zarreth, however, was just as stubborn, struggling hard against an ingrained obedience towards an enforcing Templar. He wanted to call for his magic, but doing so would give Cullen permission to act unpredictably, so he settled for words.

"Tread lightly, Commander. I know who you are, what you did... "Butcher of Kinloch", eh? Kirkwall's "_Blind_"?" the mage stretched his neck out to look the ex-Templar directly in the eye, snapping every word dryly with barred, crooked teeth, every shameful title. "Well, Cullen, you don't know what I am, despite what you may think. You have no idea, but let me be honest – it's more than a mouthful to chew for the likes of you. _Tread. Lightly_".

"You're threatening me?!" Cullen's voice dropped to a murderous low.

"I'll veto your every single word in the Council, Cullen, I swear to the Void."

Then, Zarreth looked down to see that the Commander's arm, the one pinning him to the wall, was shaking something bad. He melted into a delighted smirk.

"And what's this? Lyrium withdrawal? How convenient, I..."

Cullen didn't let him finish the sentence. _Fool_. Taunted him for no reason... He didn't need lyrium or his magic-cancelling powers to punch a man out - and that's what he did, leaving Zarreth crumpled on his ass and clutching a bleeding nose. That was a fair warning. He won't allow a mage to destroy neither the budding greatness that the Inquisition had started – nor himself.

"Son of a bitch", the said mage mumbled at the man's back, eyes darting around to see if there were any witnesses to the scuffle. He got to his feet, head kicked back to stop the bleeding as he pawed at his nose, trying to assess its integrity. It was whole. Zarreth sighed. Blood corrupted the snow – bright, coin-sized crimson stains that trailed before him. He suddenly felt sick. Sick with a feeling of a sweet, liberating hatred.

"_I've told you to tread lightly, Cullen. But I'd love to see you fail_".


	7. The Gift

"Pardon, your Worship?"

Josephine wondered what happened to the Herald lately – two blue-black, but already yellowing at the edges, bruises bloomed under his eyes, a scratch crossing his nose bridge. A fight – and here, in Haven! But with whom? It aggravated Lady Montilyet to _not know_. If anything, that was her biggest peeve – _not knowing_ was a curse, an itch that couldn't be scratched. She frowned briefly, and then turned her attention to the man standing in her cabinet.

"The horse, Josephine... Uh, Lady Montilyet".

She set her feather down.

"I'm awfully sorry... I'm just head's deep in these reports, the letters...", she gestured at parchments strewn across her massive desk. "Care to repeat?"

The Herald smiled, and grabbed a chair to sit down before her.

"Master Dennet's horse, the gift for helping with the farms. That mare, a Fereldan Holder? Forder? Never mind. I want it to be yours. You travel a lot. And I'm... not much a rider, you know".

Josephine suppressed a delighted giggle. No, of course that was a generous offer, and unexpectedly so, but she knew a part of the Herald's reasoning. The man couldn't ride a horse for his life, and even _feared_ the animals after that exact mare almost took his fingers off, attempting to bite them when the mage tried to feed salt to her. The only witnesses to the shame was Varric – who told her of it and Cassandra – so she kept her mouth shut about it. It was expected, though – Circle mages didn't need to learn riding a horse (or swimming, or functioning like regular human beings) and the thought colored her mood slightly blue.

She nodded curtly to him.

"Thank you, serah Zarreth. It will most surely be of great assistance".

Her acceptance brightened the mage's face. Josephine made a note to herself from the beginning, that the man liked being called directly by name or his House's name – too, a remnant from the Circle days, as she assumed. Most of the Inquisition addressed him as "Herald" or "mage", at least those with the Chantry ties. "Must be awful to feel yourself more of an instrument, than a man", Josephine thought whenever the Council was summoned and the differences found room to clash.

Perhaps, that was the reason why Zarreth stuck to her. The Antivan woman was so... different? As if she lived in a world different to his. Despite to the years spent in Orlais and Ferelden, in the thick of their politics, Josephine shined like a pristine gem, untouched by the muck and filth in which she traded. She appeared to care not about mages, templars, demons, clerics – just getting to the right deal, with the right effort. That graceful and subtle pragmatism in the quest for power, spoke to Trevelyan's heart no less than the woman's sculpted, regal visage.

Zarreth sat there, taking in the quietness of her improvised cabinet, interrupted only by the "scritch-scritch" of Minaeve's feather in the corner. Lady Montilyet's quarters had became a haven for him, where he could escape from the pressing reality of the Frostbacks, the Breach, his own status. Josephine was neither suspicious of him, nor piously fervent... Of course, there was Solas, a peculiar mentor and a well of knowledge, and Varric, the dwarf he would gladly call a friend – plus the Tevinter, serah Pavus, whom the mage didn't find time to know better amongst the chaos of their mind-boggling time-travel. But Lady Josephine was something else altogether. A woman.

"I'm glad. I don't understand anything about breeds, but it's supposed to be one sturdy mount. Anyway", he fumbled with his bandages. "Any news?"

"Lelliana's spies are still trying to track down the Grey Wardens – I'm positive in their success. And, in a strike of luck, some Houses are ready to press down on Lord Seeker... and then there's Sera".

Zarreth rolled his eyes.

"Don't even tell me. A few days more, and I'll resort to violence, and be forever known as "Herald of Elf-ass-beats", the unimaginative quip sparked laughter from Josephine, and the mage felt a swell of pride, to catch an interest of someone like Lady Montilyet... Josephine herself. It was magnificent.

Little did he know that she enjoyed the Herald's visits no less than him. The ambassador quickly learned that beyond the magic, the Mark, the scars and the cynicism, lay an educated, sharp mind that in other circumstances wouldn't be out of place in the Great Game. He even attempted to talk to her in Antivan a few times, with a horrible accent to boot.

Josephine was a bard, but her love of stories extended all around, and she loved to hear the man fill her on various subjects, from Draconology to the History of the Undead. Not that he had much adventure, but Circle life intrigued her, and knowing of it was a powerful asset to her arsenal.

And on the other side of the coin, there was Zarreth's thirst for tales as well. Not even the tales, but the life that existed apart from the war, and the Circle, and the grim mess they found themselves in. Under vague pretenses, he'd come to her quarters, and they'd talk, talk – about the places beyond Ferelden and Ostwick, people and customs, and sights that the mage hadn't seen. Her voice was like liquid lyrium, even, soft – enveloping, in a way. He'd close his eyes and imagine the Waking Sea as she described it, rocking on the waves of her calm narration. At such times, he wished he had the audacity to sit at her feet, put his head on her lap and let her _tend_ to him in a motherly fashion he new she was capable of... Josephine was intriguing, a sun-kissed mystery that had been utterly impossible in the dull fabric of his universe – a window to a world that turned without the need for him at all. Until the Breach.

The mage inhaled deep. Well, everything changes.

"Josephine", he stood up, strolling towards her desk. "Can you ask Minaeve out for a bit?"


	8. The Offer

He sat right on the papers before her, nearly knocking a candle down. The movement was brash, sudden – and then her hand was gripped in the mage's bandaged fingers, caressing her flesh softly. But the surprise didn't last long... Josephine encountered a fair share of men quick to express their affections to her, in courts all over the Empire. Now, it seemed, it was Trevelyan's turn.

Still, with all the experience in brushing off the most demanding chevaliers, she didn't know how to respond. Not sure of her own feelings towards the mage that balanced on the edge of curiosity and friendship. An affair with him would be a mistake, even for the sake of a greater goal – even though Zarreth Trevelyan was of noble birth, he was an apostate, with no claims to his inheritance.

And then, granted if the Breach was sealed and the Chantry restored, what awaited him? Josephine calculated all variants – the most probable of which would seen the restoration of the Circles. There was a chance that the Chantry in that case would overlook his status as a rebel mage in gratitude for the deed, or that the Inquisition would continue to protect him, but... The Chantry had already showed it would not tolerate a monopoly on holiness. Maybe this was why the mage rushed now, feeling the end of the knot nearby, the end of a unique moment of peace where he could grab a chance of human affection.

Josephine was cautious. She raised a shapely, trimmed eyebrow.

"Have I asked you of a favor before?" he inquired in a hushed whisper. "Have I, Lady Montilyet?"

No, she thought. Not the kind of man to expect or ask for favors. To take, by force or coercion – that appealed to her.

"No", the ambassador echoed.

"Well now is the occasion. I'm in dire need of one".

For a second, Josephine doubted herself. The candle-light flickered, reflecting on the ancient stone-set, concave ceiling – in the hollow of the man's eye sockets, betraying a pewter gleam of malevolence. She blinked, slowly – permissively.

Zarreth took her hand to his chaffed lips, admiring the silken skin, the contrast of his waxen, Circle-bourne pallor with the rich sheen of her caramel flesh, the slender quality of her bones. He kissed her knuckle, inhaling the tangy aroma of Antivan spices and fumes and looked up.

"Don't think the horse was a prelude to this. I trust you'd help in any case", he said. "La-... Josephine, I know you have your own agents, independent of Leliana's?"

Her shoulders moved, barely visible under the large puffs of velveteen fabric. "Yes, it might be so".

"I need you... your people, that is – to keep an eye after the First Enchanter. For me", he let go of her hand reluctantly.

Josephine's eyes widened, as she gave the mage a questioning look, but he held a hand to his lips, beckoning her not so speak just yet.

"And especially watch out for all interactions between Vivienne and our Commander. Then report to me directly".

The expression of extreme focus was one Zarreth adored most on Josephine. The way her full lips curled in a smug, feline way, how her brow creased, breaking the symmetry of her finely sculpted face. She picked up a feather nervously, twirled it around, dark eyes dashing around in thought, then pointed the quill at him.

"That's a favor of favors. Spying after our own?"

Zarreth slipped from the desk, and paced around it, visibly agitated. He ran a hand through the short bristle of his hair, wincing when fingers struck a gash in the scalp.

"Yes, but it's not like Vivienne is fully "our own". You know it better than I do, that the sole reason she is here, is to secure her power in the face of the chaos!"

"_That's hard to argue_", Josephine thought, but said nothing. Zarreth stopped, and loomed over the table, arms tense – an animal, ready to pounce.

"I have no proof of anything, but she's digging under me, I feel it. And Cullen will be an accessory to the deed. This isn't a merry game of Wicked Grace. It's a shift, a stage of transition.".

_Modest in temper, bold in deed_. That was the Herald's House motto, was it? But this Trevelyan was nothing of that – his temper balanced between cold detachment and explosive malice, and his deeds were steeped in shadows. Josephine squinted at the mage – indeed, if not for his disfigurement and grit, he'd be an adept of the Game. That must've come naturally to Circle enchanters – they couldn't sleep with a bare back.

His head canted as he waited for her answer. There was a cruel intensity to Zarreth's eyes, even if the words were pleading. Not towards her, no– but the world. The ambassador encountered such eyes before... of men dead-set on acquiring power and not letting go of it.

Josephine knew Cullen's story, and pieces of the Trevelyan's as well. She also knew they barely tolerated each other aside from tactics and strategies. In her inner mind, she liked to think of men as swords, weapons to be utilized at a correct situation – not in function, but a poetic analogy, a penchant for which that trailed with her since her rogue-ish days.

Cullen was a sword broken, then forged together back, sharpened and polished – a fine piece of armory, for anyone who knew not of the seam between the separated parts. Zarreth was a sword that wasn't broken, but that was chipped and scrapped, worn out until it almost lost its edge. Something was amiss in the man, as if slightly skewed, but impossible to catch – a tear into the void perhaps, like the Mark on his hand.

She couldn't deny a desire to see the steel clash.

"I think that can be arranged", she uttered finally, a diplomatic smile tugging at the corners of her lips, amusement written in every line of her pretty face.

Josephine didn't disappoint. Curiosity took the best of her, and Zarreth mentally patted himself on the back for the masterful maneuver. Not only that, but a shared secret always brings people closer together - and he admitted that he had wanted it. Strongly, at that. Of course, a woman of Lady Montilyet's magnitude was out of his reach... But things were prone to change.

That was a law of nature.


	9. The Tower

"It's only a law of nature... for the strong to consume the weak".

Fire itself was the greatest devourer. It consumed everything in its path, fueling the growth. Efficiently, without mercy.

Now, fire was at his command. Roaring happily, it feasted on the bookshelves of Senior Enchanter Lydia's chamber, sending scorched pages and ashes flying around the room like wounded birds.

"No one is coming to help, Lydia", Zarreth told the woman trapped in the flaming circle. "The Tooth is no more... we are free, Senior Enchanter. Despite your sniveling machinations".

She could see that, his Circle-grey robes wet and slick with blood, the crimson dripping from a crudely affixed staff blade. Beyond her cell, she could hear screams – agonized wails of both Templar and mage, as the aeon-long enmities had finally broken through with the clang and hack of metal, with the sizzling screech of a lightning bolt.

The pyromancer stepped forward, parting the fire-wall – the flames licked at him and then receded, obeying the motions of his staff, while his free, blackened hand remained in a clawed grip, tightening the entropic hex-vine around the struggling woman. Trevelyan felt pleased with himself – with the Tower fallen to chaos and fighting, he had time to exact his revenge and strike the woman at her weakest.

The look of disbelief and terror on Lydia's face almost made Zarreth salivate. Whomever said that vengeance is best served cold never looked at their enemy through haze of a funeral pyre. She didn't expect this. She didn't calculate how utterly decrepit the Circle was – or how quickly the people got inspired by Kirkwall. And what she certainly missed, was that he, Zarreth Trevelyan, was scheduled to be made Tranquil a few days ahead, on the brink of Bloomingtide.

The rebellion stroke first – not entirely without his help.

He eyed her writhing form with malignant curiosity. Auburn hair, damp from sweat, obscured her freckled face.

"Remember serah Knight-Sergeant Davian? He's outside your chambers now, Lydia. Pinned like an insect and splayed in the very same fashion. So much for being a loyalist, huh?"

Resentment, corrosive as acid, rose up his throat, threatening to spill over with undignified, insane laughter. The question was rhetorical – the spell that chained her in paralysis, also held her tongue locked.

After all, Lydia didn't deserve to justify herself. She advised the Senior Enchanters and Master Yren himself, to request and conduct the Rite of Tranquility on him, to quell the embers of mutiny, while in reality, he, Zarreth, didn't participate in the conspiracy at first. It was she who planted the seed of his undoing, so what else there was to say?

Much to his regret, Trevelyan hadn't time to admire the woman's plight, as she desperately struggled to crawl away from the encircling, creeping flames. The din of the battle grew near, and he would've hated to have a stray Templar interrupt the moment of his glory. Tear-filled eyes glistened through the fiery veil, but the other mage's expression remained joyful and hard. In the end, the fate Lydia had consigned him to was far worse than what he intended to do. True to his House, he was merciful.

He jerked his staff, rotating it slowly so the fire circle seized for real, enveloping the Senior Enchanter's body. The hex-vine pulled Lydia to her feet as well. The pyromancer wanted his adversary's last sight to be of him... of what _had become_ of him.

Reveling in the control he had over the element, he pressed the gusts of fire against Lydia, great, glowing tongues that earned for supple human flesh to dine one.

Zarreth watched how the woman's throat tightened into thin strings of muscle as a scream futily tried to rip through. In the back of his mind, a faint flicker of regret beat like a dying candle-light, only to be snuffed out when the Senior Enchanter's feet charred to the bone, pieces of flesh falling from the toes. He couldn't stop now. All of his impotence, pain and humiliation poured into the the great hearth that now ravaged Lydia.

The pyromancers' fingers twisted grotesquely, as he undid the part of the hex-coil that kept the woman's throat seized up.

"Plead, Lydia. Plead for it to end quickly".

And she did. The shrill sound bounced around in Trevelyan's head as the other mage's flesh shrunk and blackened, the disgusting aroma of burnt fat assaulting his nostrils. The flame was not gentle or clean to her – it took her body layer by layer, erasing it part after part. He liked that.

Lydia stopped screaming her throat bloody raw when the fire reached her stomach.

Zarreth, on the other hand, was so engrossed by his revenge, that he didn't notice a terrified eye peaking in the slit of the door.


	10. The Game

In the next few days, Haven adjusted to a busy routine. Caravans with goods, weaponry and provisions streamed in and out of the village's main gates, providing for the various camps and holds that the new order established in the region. In return, more and more people appeared in the soldier's camp - farmers and bakers, blacksmiths and tailors, refuges and volunteers, all either running... or seeking a better purpose or life under Andraste's blessed eye. It prepared fertile ground for merchants and mercenaries, where every crawl of the Herald out into the Hinterlands, or the Storm Coast, brought new people with it - and new demands as well.

The pot boiled. Fiona and her mages, the last sane Templars, Red Jenny's friends sneaking about, arriving dignitaries from Rivain, Starkhaven and Orlais - human, elven and dwarven exploits twisted into a snare of inevitability, tightening around everyone's throat, but there was no other exit than to cling to it.

The Breach still stormed in the sky, deaf to the prayers and human plight.

The Herald managed to hide away from the perpetual, insectile grind that the life in the village had become. Under the pretense of studying magic, he found an asylum in the small, but cozy, Chantry's library. Vivienne was there, too, cataloging the tomes for further research, and in the wake of silence from Josephine's agents, Zarreth preferred to be closer to the regal enchantress. It also didn't help that closing the rifts was a daunting task, so he came to appreciate the way his mind switched to simpler matters.

"...and the Dragon takes the Trebuchet!" Dorian announced cheerily, his gloved hand swiping a figure from the desk. "Really, rogaessi, you're getting better, but you have to plan at least three steps ahead, not two, with this".

Zarreth clutched his head in confusion. "You're lying! By Andraste's flaming tits, how? This is a disaster!"

The Tevinter mage chuckled, observing the utter destruction he rained unto his partner's forces. Chess was a favorite Imperial pastime, and he took it upon himself to teach the game to the Herald. The man was evidently determined to collect all the cobwebs that the underground book storage had amassed in the last Age - with his ass, no less, and proceed to die of boredom. Lessons were flying by quickly, and the pyromancer was getting there - he almost grasped the difference between the Knight and Fox moves.

They situated at a small desk in the corner of the main librarium hall - the table's surface buried under the books about Primal Storm-binding and light-casting. Sneaking away from Heraldry duties, as Dorian understood, was necessary. With a light heart, Trevelyan and his advisers burdened the newly acquired Chargers with all the scouting orders, and the mage didn't want to buzz around in the Tal-Vashoth's field of view afterward.

A few meters away, Vivienne's ornate boots clacked on the ancient floor tiles, as she moved around the shelves with a parchment, checking and adding up.

Zarreth, in the meantime, fell out of his stupor, and rocked around his last Knight, clearly unsure of what to do with the figure. He looked up, staring intently at the Tevinter, as if trying to read the correct move off the man's face, but Dorian just grinned and picked at his mustache.

"Is everything Tevinter so... _complex_?"

"Chess isn't complex!", Dorian brushed the complaint aside with a scoff. "Think, Herald! I'm sure you had more mind-bending problems to solve in the Circle, than figure where to put a chess piece on the board... besides, I've heard you're not that hesitant to move the pieces on that war table of yours anyway. How is that different?"

It wasn't, Zarreth conceded. Only the markers symbolized people, flesh and blood, so vulnerable and fragile, and here - well, it was just polished dragonbone. He pushed the Knight forward, attempting to flank Dorian's Cleric.

"You're right. But see, the abstractness of this uh... wicked! - game, is what makes the stakes so high. People are concrete, easier to deal with".

"Spoken like a true Tevene, my friend", Dorian's impeccably polite tone was laced with sarcasm. "Some Imperial citizens do that all their life - move people around North like little ivory Nugs. It's called "slavery" here".

"You're saying that like it's a bad thing".

"Depends on who you ask".

Zarreth did ask a lot. The mage was like a sea sponge attached to Dorian's side even when he was away from a proper bath - absorbing any information on the Imperium with a deepstalker's voracity. That was a trait he shared with other Sourthern mages, it seemed... Back in Redcliffe, Alexius and the other Venatori at first couldn't get rid off the rebels that dragged behind their every word and deed.

If Dorian learned anything from his time in the town, was that the Circle enchanters on one hand, had little idea what the Imperium was, due to the taboo quality of the subject in their "prisons", and subsequently, on the other hand, twisted what little information they had on Tevinter, into a legend that painted his homeland into the land of milk and honey for the Magi kind.

For Alexius, that was a good thing. It made putting the ignorant folk under the sole of his boot much easier. For the apostates it was bad news, and Alexius didn't hurry to break their fantasies. Their fervent enthusiasm benefited him all too well.

The Herald - _and oh dear Void, these dirty, pious fools got a mage Herald of Andraste, que the horror! the horror_! - didn't differ from those mages in the slightest.

His first inquires, after they got back in Haven following the time-travel escapade, were as naive and far removed from adequacy as possible. The ex-Circle mage's mind had trouble imagining a society flipped on its head, and when he succeeded, the result was idealized - a consequence of the mental effort taken. But, like with chess, they were getting there - Trevelyan got filled on the truth, and from Dorian's point of view, only good could come of it. For his Southern brethren... and him, by extension.

After all, he could see where Zarreth and the rebels came from. A rather horrid place, to be honest. Horrid enough to have a routine half-smile plastered to his face whenever a Southerner began to spout "opinions" on anything magic-related. As days went on, as Dorian explored the Haven and the surrounding lands more, the way Fereldans and Free-marchers treated the Magi folk, the way their whole way of living structured and wrote out what a mage should be - he couldn't blame Zarreth or Fiona for holding idealistic perceptions of Tevinter. Anything could be seen better than _that_.

There was a degree of savagery to the culture that Dorian couldn't keep noticing, and couldn't keep from hating: if not it, then his own inner judgment of these people's customs and way of life.

He nodded to his thought, and took a Nug with his other Dragon. The pyromancer's eyes widened and he practically wailed aloud.

"Your figures are disappearing like the snow", Dorian purred.

"And you're a cheat!"

"It's impossible to cheat in chess - it was designed so".

"What's the point of a game where there's no cheating allowed?"

"There! There's some of that magister coming out of you again".

"And that's shameful, you wager?" the Herald was evidently amused.

"Not shameful, just peculiar for a Southerner. But a lot about you and your folk is strange and... I'd even say, enticing? The Imperium can get a little repetitive here and there. You got all these rifts and rebellions and what will you, going on. Checkmate", Dorian announced, barely glancing at the board as his Dragon entered the Keep.

Seeing the game end to his favor, he lounged back, regarding the other mage with a long, evaluating look, then focused on the writings and tomes, fingers playfully running and tapping across the parchment and finer paper. It was good, to sit like that beside a warm fire, making small talk with practically the only person in the Inquisition who had regarded him with any resemblance of respect and friendship.

Ferelden turned out to be an ass-freezing, icicle-filled nightmare that seeped into his bones at almost any given time, and that wasn't limited only to the weather.

Likewise, Haven in particular turned out to be a rather chilly place for Dorian. The Altus finally admitted to himself, that he had expected a different kind of turn - something involving throwing flowers to his feet for saving the day back at Redcliffe, bards singing ballads of "Pavus the Magnificent", mothers shoving newborns into his arms, asking for permission to name them in his steed... well maybe something more subdued, but not what he got actually - borderline hostility and disinterest.

No matter how much he would joke about the supposed "evil" of his homeland and himself, the ice didn't break. Trevelyan and Solas - and to a lesser extent, Varric, being the busybody dwarf that he was - were the only ones to actively involve himself with the Tevene man. The elf, though, had a hard time getting rid of the sneering lines etched into his face, the workings of his forever unforgiving mind up on display without much veiling.

It all had been... below his expectations. No one practically rushed to get to know the Altus mage: the shining gem of House Pavus, the savior of their beloved Herald, and all in all, such an exemplary, good-natured pariah. He was cast out from his own family to prove his progressive views on the decaying nature of the old Imperium true. But nobody the other side of the fence praised him for it.

Irrelevance dulled Dorian's spirits. He wobbled a figure on the board.

"I'm seeing you're making quite the progress with the primal school here", he addressed Zarreth's research. "It's no Vyrantium, I see that quite well in your notes - forgive me for looking at them, but there _are_ some jarringly wrong conclusions and sigil schematics - but it seems that a few of the Redcliffe mages were right. Your Circles do give a decent education. No comparison, though, of course!"

Zarreth smirked. He set his chess pieces aside and gathered the notes, looking over the shoulder for the First Enchanter to float out of his field of view - Vivienne's impossible headpiece bobbed about a lower bookshelf like a sinking ship with its sails up.

"Talked to the Circle mages?"

"Yeah. It's strange, really, for me at least. In the Imperium, we are told that your Southern Circles are glorified prisons, you know... Templars running around with mage babies in their jaws, chomping on them - quite a dashing reflection of what the local folks thinks of the magisters, you don't find? But anyway, ahem", Dorian jokingly suppressed his humor. "Yet, Lady Fiona's people, the few I had the pleasure to talk back there, actually said they like it in the Towers. Safety and ability to study in peace, like you obviously did. So where's the truth? Leashed or loved, what is it?"

Zarreth blinked slowly, momentarily lost in thought. Then, as he looked back from his parchment to Dorian, his brow arched in an expression of total incredulity. The Altus thought that the other mage, for a moment, was balancing on an edge between explosive laughter and indignant outrage, the Veil thinning in the space around them as if under a great outer pressure. In a second though, the sensation dissipated, and Zarreth just curled his lips in a small cynical grimace.

"Listen, Dorian. You've told me that your Circles are prestigious embellishments, right? Magi offspring contending for getting the best education nobility can get, a pavement into the Magisterium?", Trevelyan cocked his head to the side.

"More or less".

"Well here, it's the other way around. Circles, are, basically, orphanages. Unwanted children and youngsters, picked up from...everywhere, really. Too many people, too little Circles", Zarreth shrugged. "Remember? "_Magic is meant to serve man, not rule over him_". In Ferelden, Free Marches and beyond to the South, well, the Circle is an equalizer. When you are a mage, nothing else matters".

The pyromancer stuck a hand out and began curling his fingers down as he counted.

"You get elves from the alienages, these shabby, pathetic things from the slums. You get the Dalish, who are plucked by the Order at times, just to keep them nice and docile in the woods. You have the empty-eyed peasant kids, fat farmer daughters and the little street-rats who fire off their natural magic at a city guard when they steal a lump of bread, " Zarreth wiggled a narrow, sooty thumb. "You get the noble offspring, heirs to fortune and power, children of wealthy merchants and blacksmith's apprentices".

Dorian nodded, prompting the other man to carry on.

"What food was served in your father's house?"

"Pardon?"

"The food. In Qarinus. Was it nice?"

"What a strange question, rogaessi! Quite out of the blue, too..." Dorian frowned. "The answer is yes, though. Father wouldn't settle for some commoner chow, no. Our cook, Gania, she could bake a whole pheasant, stuffed with Rivaini sourfruit and.."

"So... now that you've tried what Flissa makes down the corner", Zarreth was grinning by that point, seeing Dorian's enthusiatic recollection of Tevinter morsels. "Or say, scout Harding - no, Dorian, don't give me that look, I'm not going to clean your bile off the floor! Anyway, what would you stick to?"

"I've nothing against these fine women and their handling of a kettle. I miss the better cuisine, of course".

"That's because your taste had known variety, and now your stomach grieves for the time it was full and happy", Zarreth remarked. "Many of those who were taken into the Circle of Magi, my friends, rivals, _nobodies_ \- they were the kind of people who hadn't a warm stew in months."

The mage paused, straightening his writings with the edge of the palm - he frowned, mulling his next words over, finding the correct words for the Tevinter to fully understand.

Dorian waited patiently, observing the way the Mark rippled through with sickly light, following every motion. Finally, Zarreth let go of his work and met Dorian's gaze straight-on - murky, bloodshot yellow staring dispassionately into light, animated green. Where the Tevinter, despite all his disappointments, harbored hope and a (slightly tattered) belief in justice, the apostate pulled over a cold, reptile calculation devoid of much sentiment.

Dorian felt that it masked something - but what, he couldn't understand.

"When you had nothing, the Circle gave you everything - shelter, food, clothing, every single thing an alienage elf or slum-orphan would've killed for. Offered peace to the terror of a lightless, hopeless life. A warm bed in exchange for a Templar's eye over you - the deal is fair! Of course they loved it, clung to it like a rabid mabari", Zarreth gulped audibly, swallowing some of the unnecessary venom in his voice. "To this day, many lament the Circle, for it was their anchor to some form of a decent life... They were content with their oatmeal slush, because the only thing they knew aside it was an empty stomach".

Whatever _it_ was, Dorian decided, it just tempered him. Swallowed it, then warped into armor.

"But not all of us had been of the same limited perception. When you knew the taste of food, wine, freedom, then what the Circle offered appeared in a different light, as you can guess..."

Zarreths fingers curled, hands turning into claws as a shadow of pain passed his face.

"Tranquil - I don't know if you've ever talked to them in Vyrantium, but I, at Ostwick, had - say they feel good. Serene. Un-disturbed", The pyromancer chuckled ruefully, the sound merely clicks from the depths of a dry throat. "However, what they also say, is that they don't remember how or what they felt before the Rite".

"What would they say if they could compare", Dorian finished the thought quietly. The other mage nodded. "I see now".

"That's a grim matter, anyway", Zarreth pointed out. "I'd rather we cut the wonderful recollections short before we begin sobbing in each others coats, Dorian. Just - don't get sold on the merry Circle elf chipper about the generous Chantry. They'd be shoveling shit under other circumstances, and they think Templar shit stinks nice - er".

"Well, your Worship, we could always count on you to make things better by envoking something as exciting as _excrements_ into the equasion", Dorian chuckled amiably.


	11. The Bite

That day, with Vivienne abound, Zarreth missed an opportunity to flip the situation and put Dorian to the real verbal disembowelment he had planned for. It presented itself a couple of days later, when Varric, Cassandra, Sera and the pyromancer returned from a scouting blitz into the Wounded Coast, after running an errand for the Inquisiton that was low-stocked on anti-venom.

Well, "_returned_" was a strong word for the grotesque procession that took place in a night-time Haven. Any curious onlookers could've looked out their windows to see Cassandra and Varric hauling the mage by his arms and legs with little to no coordination into Adan's house, while Sera jumped around them like a deranged jester.

Prior to that, Dorian visited Adan for a council on the nature of some Ferelden herbs, and was as just surprised as the older ex-alchemist, when the front door was swung open, and the party came tumbling in, dropping the Herald on the cluttered work table in the center of the hut's only room.

"His Glowiness ran bum-first onto a huge hairy spider-fang, and became less glowy, but a deal more nasty assie!" Sera chirped excitedly behind Cassandra's back, and made a face at Dorian.

"Ugh, shut up, _wench_! Let me go, Cassandra, I'll strangle her and cut her ears off!" Zarreth, pinned to table by the Seeker, attempted to get up and do as promised.

"I expected a "good evening", but this is definitely better", Dorian smirked in Varric's direction, to which the dwarf mumbled that "you wish, Sparkler". Then the Altus's attention turned back to the Trevelyan - Cassandra was trying to calm the frothing mage down, ordering him to lay still while Adan moved in to inspect whatever was wrong with the Herald.

"It's must be the spider bite", she explained to the potions master, expertly batting Zarreth's hand away from her face as he once again attempted to rise up. "He's agitated, delirious from pain, burning from within. It's like someone went and made him worse than he was - as if it was possible".

"Maybe that's Maker's will too", murmured Varric, holding on to the mage's boots and trying to straighten his jerking legs out, all for Adan's comfort as the he inspected Zarreth's thigh wound.

"No, it's definitely spider venom. Look, see the flesh darken on the edge? How did you fools even let it so close?"

Dorian got up, taking a look behind Adan's shoulder while the ex-alchemist carefully took off the layers of cloth bandages. The strips of fabric were soaked in elfroot balm and dark, greasy pus. Beneath them, was singular puncture wound, moist and red, with the skin as if raised around it - a tell-tale sign of a giant spider's mandibles sinking in. Adan shook his head in condemnation.

"How long ago was that?"

"Day and a half", Cassandra pipped in. "Went in a thaig cave. He seemed fine though, drank a lyrium potion, we helped him tie it up..."

"It's the fever", Adan explained. "A day, bad. Strange that it hadn't passed yet. The venom's all across his body now with the blood. Mages tend to be slightly more resilient to poisons, but if you had been horseback or traveling, it moved up the body, from the wound. Now it kicked in, and..."

"SERA! WHERE ARE YOU, YOU FILTHY THING?!" Zarreth roared and managed to get up, eyes wild and shiny with fever. "I'll skin you alive, I'll hang your hide from the rafters so your piss-ant "friends" will soil themselves, I'll-!"

Cassandra wrestled the mage back, surprised by the man's wiry strength even in such a disheveled state.

"_Sheesh_, what's his chip?", the blond elf pouted. "Stupid Herald, it's bug-bite, not all like Sera-bite. I have arrows".

Varric gritted his teeth at that, but kept his mouth shut. For now. He prided himself in being a dwarf of vast experience, patience and tolerance, and loved a fun spirit in people, but Sera was something else. The lack of limits, where too much spice makes food inedible, and too much swearing in a joke makes it unfunny. Plus, it was partially her fault - Zarreth raved when he heard her voice, because that much his addled mind actually remembered: the fact that she pushed him onto the Void-damned spider.

***

The elf girl was a good shot, he couldn't deny. Remembering their previous encounters, Cassandra and the Herald himself agreed that in order to harvest the beast's innards for anti-venom draughts, it would be better to kill them off from a distance. Thus, Sera and Varric (and Bianca to boot) were meant to take them from a distance in the caverns, the mage – to assault the critters and send them fleeing, and Cassandra's task was to keep guard in case one got close for a web spit or bite. The spider's mandibles reached a man's arms length, and could inflict serious damage by itself, without the poison.

However, it all went askew. They set up a camp in the woods, and got drenched in rain. As a result, the next morning they entered the cave system wet and bleary from little sleep. For a few hours, they wandered the forgotten thaig pathways, trying to not get lost, and when the spiders finally came, sensing warm meat in the cold dungeons, the party's spirit was rather down. But no, in a barely lit, treacherously vast underground hall, with rubble and broken dwarven statues piling around, Sera thought of nothing better than to taunt the Herald for his cowardly use of magics.

Cassandra knew that battles were won with good strategy, not just by roaring at your enemy and charging them head on. Amongst them, she thought she had possessed the greatest experience, and usually, none argued with her directions. Varric had been a solid man, able to work under command, and Zarreth, being trained for combat enchanting (at least theoretically, for he had neither finished his training nor been conscripted to a war that ended years before his Harrowing), understood his role in controlling the battleground. That included, not being the center of enemy attack. Sera, on the other hand, was a wild card.

Explaining things to her, in Varric's humble opinion, was like beating on rock with bare hands. She always did what she wanted, and while the dwarf was shooting a bolt after bolt in the spiny, bloated abdomen of a giant spider that skittered over to him, what Sera desired was to find the pyromancer hid behind a pillar, lower her bow and tell him he's a cowardly git.

Mages - even battlemages - were never supposed to be the avantgarde in a battle. Theirs was the role of distanced, targeted destruction, monitored by the Chantry's orderlies and kept behind the frontlines in the safety of the Templar Order's clutches. Circles didn't encourage much physical fitness even to those enchanters that dealt with combat spells. In part - out of fear for the Templars, who, in times of lyrium shortages, had to have at least the advantage of strength and swordsmanship.

Varric, being unfortunate in life to meet so many robes during hist infamous exploits, knew only one mage that was a veritable threat in close quarters. An expert not only with a staff, but with a staff blade as well. That was Hawke, an apostate since childhood... a man who grew with relative freedom, under the sky and wind, amongst the real forces of nature.

As far as Zarreth went, he pulled off wicked spells, if anyone asked Varric. No denying, the talent was there - how many times did he cover their arses by raising a wall of fire between them and the enemies, aiding escape? How many foes were scorched in raining flames, or cast in ice, only for Bianca's bolt to shatter their frigid flesh? But going headfirst into an enemy, slashing and hacking with a knight's grace and finesse?

Way above Trevelyan's head.

Of course, months of running, hiding and clawing for existence hardened him - he hadn't wheezed on steps like Sparkler, or complained about a staff's weight like Vivienne. The mage even could use his weapon to block clumsier sword attacks, though often loosing the staff to a blade. There was a vicious tenacity to the pyromancer that compensated the weakness of his starved body and lack of skill in close quarter scuffles... but in the heat of the battle, it wouldn't always save him.

Zarreth knew it, so instead of playing into Sera's provocation, he turned to face her and stepped back, ready to reprimand the elf, momentarily loosing awareness of his surroundings. He backed right into a giant spider's jaws - the monster slipped by Cassandra with a lost leg or two... and all the mage was able to do was freeze in shock and pain as the thing mauled his thigh, for a good few seconds before Varric burst the spider's eyes with three well-placed bolts, and Cassandra finished it off by severing the abdomen. It was a sore consolation, as far as Varric was concerned.

***

"Look", Dorian politely moved Adan aside. He snatched a stalk of dried embrium from a bunch hung overhead, and poked the wound with it gently, spreading the inflamed flesh. Something glistened in the tissue, and Adan squinted, ignoring the man's violent convulsions in reaction to his inspection. "Tiny bristles of fang matter, that's what's there. It's still infecting him".

"Wash out with deathroot boil?"

Dorian scratched his lip thoughtfully.

"No, something more viscous. A kind of resin, to adhere these strands, mayhap?"

His words were interrupted by a loud crash, as the flailing mage knocked off a bottle from the table, twisting around to claw at Sera, who continued lingering around, amused by the commotion she caused.

"You'd better knock him out, Seeker, this is getting ridiculous", Varric huffed from the other end of Zarreth. "Even these poor sods can't calm him down".

"I can", Adan interjected. "Just hold his head, I'll give him some sleep-weed".

Dorian sighed. The evening indeed just got better.


	12. The Blood

In the end, _something_ did work out. Adan heated some pine resin that he kept for closing bottles, and used a piece of the fragrant mass to pull out the thin, milky strands of broken spider fang. Both the potions master and Dorian helped to move the Herald back in his house, where the latter got more sleep-weed poured into him, sending the mage into a dreamy, barely concious stupor.

As Adan began bandaging the man's swollen upper leg, the Tevinter carefully interjected.

"That's not yet it, Adan. I'll need to purify his blood first from the venom",

"Didn't strike me as a healer, you did", the potions master grumbled, clearly not letting go of his misshapen "patient" that easily.

"Ah, but it's an essential part for anyone dabbling in necromancy. And I happen to dabble. A lot - and _successfully_, believe me, serah".

Adan regarded the Herald, who was barely listening to their banter through the fog of a good mind-hazing draught, then Dorian, with a long, disapproving stare, and left.

"Mhaa.. Maker... what are you d..doing?" Despite his state, Zarreth punched through the fog, focusing on the other mage. He managed to prop himself up on numb elbows, observing Dorian's blurry, bird-like silhouette in the dusky light of a few candles. The man's hands moved - something streamed in them, a ribbon? something smooth and silky, entangling between the mage's lightly glowing hands and splashing down in a bowl.

"Drawing out poisoned blood, that's all. Never heard of a trick like this? Color me impressed!"

So it was his blood, twirling in the air like a swarm of spilled rubies. Of-bloody-course, no big deal. Zarreth was no stranger to levitating bodily liquids. His head was heavy, buzzing - thoughts grating slowly and painfully over each other, catching and dragging on sharp edges - light burning it through like veilfire, but he would be a fool, if...

"Blood... magic?"

Dorian's head jerked up - a startled deer that spotted a hunter.

"You're joking, right?" He rose his hand from the mage's thigh, dumping dark, veiny splotches back into the bowl. "Oh I get it! Magister, Tevinter, demon, blood magic, maleficar - and there I was, hoping you awoke just to admire my perfection"

"No... for. Forgive me. Didn't mean any..." Zarreth struggled with words, his speech slurred both from the fever and medicine. "Disrespect".

It took several minutes to extract the last infected blood - the spell that bound venom which already spread required concentration. A helpful invention of the Old Imperium, borne by the need of nobility to survive assassination attempts, it had become a routine spell for the Vyrantium Circle apprentices.

Watching Dorian's skilled hands reconfigure a binding sigil and pull out more liquid out of his wound, a somewhat-lucid Zarreth put his mind to the opportunity that presented itself. He was weak... hurting, helpless. His body felt chewed up and spit out, every tendon aching with a dull, but acute pain. However, conscious effort to dissolve the nauseous haze he found himself floating in, proved to be effective. The healer at the foot of the bed, tending to his wounds, would never come to think how quickly his mind would re-arrange itself, even in less than pleasant circumstances.

That was a... skill he got besides his own want, out of bare necessity. Zarreth's jaws clenched tightly, an absent-minded habit of resisting magebane and the armored, cruel hands that would still manage to slip a cup's contents down his throat.

Pieces fell together - Knights, Dragons, Nugs, Foxes, Trebuchets, Towers and Wyverns. They tumbled and fell, and with them, so did his understanding take shape. This is the design of the game.

Zarreth liked Dorian. Maybe not in the way Dorian would've preferred it, but then, Trevelyan doubted Dorian preferred him in his own ways, which was good in Zarreth's book. The Tevinter Altus was a statuesque, groomed man – probably, very handsome for those who had the taste - but even being as he was, Zarreth could objectively assess the magnetizing effect of a bronze Northern God that Pavus had channeled.

Still, with a certain softness and a certain lack of anxiety, unknown to the mages of the South, with his wit and humor, he was an admirable man. And maybe, as Trevelyan reflected, it was his own inability to fully make contact with people who were not mages, that drew him to Dorian.

It wasn't shameful or unnatural. Spend nearly all your life in the Circle, and you'll get to value only your kin, grow into feeling safe with those who share your plight, who share the burden of a collective disdain, the crushing force of a life withered in its prime bloom. It came at yet another price - the disillusionment about such bonds when he learned that his kin would rather grovel and eat dirt, then grow a spine. But with Dorian, Zarreth knew, it wasn't just a superficial mage-to-mage connection. It was a budding friendship, at least for now. He hoped that the sentiment was shared by the Tevinter.

There, as the mage learned through the course of his life, were solid benefits to friendships. Primary of those had been... secrecy.

"But... you do know blood? Blood... magic?" He asked Dorian, eyes hooded, heart skipping a beat in anticipation of an emotional response.

The Tevinter's mouth curved downwards, as if he chewed into something bitter and disgusting, but he calmly turned his head to the prone Herald.

"Isn't these the questions you string mages up on nooses here?" The nercomancer replied.

Zarreth smiled warily.

"No one. N-no one is listening"

"I really hate it when my impression of people is ruined", all of the usual sarcasm and sly, borderline flirtatiousness sapped out of Dorian's voice and shadowed face - it was replaced by sullen, ash-colored disappointment. "There I was, thinking - "there's a sane Southener at last, does neither try to kill me nor beg me to teach him how to get laid by demons"! And then bam! - all it takes for him to get ideas, is getting an itty-bitty spider fang.. _Vehendis_!"

He let go of the last bandage and stood up to walk away. Zarreth swallowed hard, his throat clamping shut with sudden anxiety and fear. Seeing Dorian so angry... not even angry, but disappointed, pissed off - at him, of all people, was a new thing. The pyromancer doubled over, crunching forwards to hastily grab the flap of Dorians robe.

"No, Dorian...", he whispered loudly. "By the Void, I'm not asking you to-!"

"Then what? What are you asking if not for leaning blood magic?" The Tevinter's accent spilled out, thick with resentment.

That was it. The moment of truth. Zarreth, still under the effects of the blood drainge, the herbs and the healing magicks, focused all of his being into actually being genuine. He gripped tighter onto the robe, knuckles whitening, dragging Dorian back to the bench beside his bed.

"I want to learn _of_ it".

Dorian was unimpressed, but sat down, guided by the pyromancer's hand. Small victories were the sweetest.

"Maybe I'm daft, rogaessi, but I don't catch the difference".

With a groan, Zarreth threw himself back onto the thin pillow, and peered at the Tevinter from an uncomfortable angle. Dorian still wore that expression of a squeamish disapproval, like he was about to squash an insect, and Trevelyan hurried to offer the explanation.

"It's... evident. I don't need that kind of power. I fa... fared through Ostwick without it. I-", he licked his lips. "Even in the worst t-times, I felt more tha- than confident to handle matters with my own affinities. And handle them I did. But now... the Venatori... This. Elder. One. Who knows? I need to know of it, to co... combat it".

He exhaled, tired from speaking. Even when speaking truth was so pleasant. He just omitted parts. Parts Dorian didn't need to know yet, just how confident (murderous, but we're the Herald, aren't we?) he was with his Primal School abilities. Aside from the battlefield, that's the catch.

"I'm not entirely convinced", the Tevinter finally uttered, eyes small and hard, like brittle pieces of broken armor, seeking out a pattern of lying on the other mage's form. That was futile. Circle mages breathed lies, lived them. No less crafty than their Northern counterparts, if for different reasons.

Dorian folded his hands across his chest protectively. Delicate, unscathed fingers thrummed a rhythm against the cloth.

"That's the truth. I don't want to learn spells o-or practice... or anything. I just want to know what it. Is. How does it manifest and what conseq- ugh! consequences it has on the enchanter and the world".

"What makes you think I know?" Dorian's voice trembled slightly from irritation.

"You've told me yourself... remember? Not that you know, but that the Imperium decries and condemns blood magic, but that people do use it, still, and-", the pyromancer held his tongue. "That requires understanding of how to fight without employing it".

"Phah! Yes. That I'm _aware_ of".

Zarreth exhaled loudly and hissed, as he rolled over to his side. He would press on. Water bores through stone. He briefly considered telling Dorian that he was apparently so adamant to the temptations of the terrible blood magic, that he didn't run and turn into an abomination when he learned about the Rite of Tranquility to be put on him... but that information was better left buried. Dorian was mischief incarnate, and his tongue was yet to be determined to have bones in it.

"That's the only thing I want. Just information to be prepared, Dorian".

"And then the next day Cassandra or Lily will find you carving your arms and summoning flesh-eating demons, right?"

"Well, if you put that so joyfully, then what's the harm innit?"

The retort made Dorian finally break his skulk. These times, when their existence teetered on the brink of an abyss...

"You do realize that if anyone learns of it, despite the fact we're not doing actual blood magic, our heads will roll. Even _your_ head will roll, Herald. Down, down the steps of this very Chantry, to the feet of cheering people. They're barely tolerating you strutting your stuff without a Templar breathing down your neck, what make you think that they'll be forgiving?".

"That's Cullen".

"No. But this little dazzling Inquisition of yours has many enemies. It so ingloriously disrupts the ancient fiefs on power here, even a magister like I can tell. They'll use everything to break the image. Your image", Dorian leaned in, every word pressed with intonation.

"Exactly. Including blood magic", Zarreth chuckled dryly through a fit of cough.

"_Touche_".

The pyromancer wiped spit from his mouth with the wool blanket that covered him, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. His lidded gaze wandered idly over the hearth, over Dorian, the intricate knit-work of his robes, lost in the tiny, blurring details.

"You're a nagging brat", whispered Dorian to the sleeping man.

Andraste's Herald poking around blood magic. That would be the grandest story to humor the Imperial Divine.

Next morning greeted Zarreth with a stout, freckled woman wrapped in heavy scout robes that sat at the edge of his bed. Before he could say anything, she fixed the fur blanket about his body, and leaned forward on him, as for a kiss. The mage held his breath.

"Lady Vivienne sent a letter today to Val Royeaux. She asks Lady Sythinia, Cleric of Memory, to recover the papers from the Ostwick Tower, all the scriptures for and about its mages", warmth brushed his ear. The woman got up, smiled coyly at Zarreth, and was gone.

_"So, that was the first move"_

The pyromancer looked up at the wooden ceiling, at golden dust dancing in the light. He called forth the memory of Vivienne, head hold proudly high, a challenge in every fluid, assertive movement. The way the high collar of her dress curved around the tall neck. He though of Cullen, of the bluish, dead tinge to his scarred lips and the way his fingers wormed incessantly around the hilt of his sword. He thought of the Circle's tower, burning black like a dead animal's carcass in a starless Ostwick night.

Scythe met the rock, the mage thought. Sparks flew from their clash, and so burned the plentiful fields...


	13. The Victory and the Crow

Cassandra felt herself obliged to feel joy. For the most part, she did. The victory, the breakthrough they so desperately needed, was achieved. In an almost habitual gesture, she threw her head up to the sky, to the point where the Fade-green hole had been punched through by a terrible force, but saw only snow-heavy, Fereldan stormclouds gather.

She sighed. They did it. The Breach was closed, and without much struggle from that Maker-cursed phenomena. No additional demons poured out, no nothing.

Why wasn't she feeling it fully? Why was there a film of grimy dissatisfaction pulled over everything, dulling the pride and hope that thrummed in her chest?

After all, it was a grand victory, a display of power and control that the Inquisition required to be seen as a major, legitimate power this side of Thedas. Commander agreed, so did others. Even Chancellor Roderick begrudgingly admitted that their actions proved right. So much had been done in just a couple of months – so many people recruited, sheltered, fed... so many conflicts drowned both in blood and diplomacy, so much careful weaving through the treacherous rifts of Orlesian politics and Chantry's rigidness.

Cassandra rubbed her face, the skin stinging in the biting cold. Maybe it was, as she found the power to frankly admit to herself, the fact that the victory in closing the Breach belonged not to her, but the Herald... and the help he had brought in Haven despite her protests.

"Am I really becoming so prideful, so... vain, from being used to be ever the hero, that I can't take it when someone else displays the same properties?", she worried. No, of course not. It was just the circumstance.

Sure, they all had built the platform for it to happen. But the acid energy blasts, trailing hot into the Herald's mark, feeding him the power over the Fade itself, came not from the stalwart Seekers or the Order. It came from the mages' staves, their reserves of mana and conviction. From their belief in the Herald.

Cassandra had been present on all the trainings and preparations. The Herald did command an authority over the rebel mages and Grand Enchanter Fiona herself, forging them into a cohesive group as they studied, trained and experimented on the magic that composed the Fade-rifts. He had... placated them enough, obviously utilizing his status as Herald, as one of their own. There was still suspicion, thick in the air from both sides.

At times, during the course of the last two weeks, she would walk to the inner courtyard behind the Chantry, where the mages have trained under the supervision of Cullen's Templars, and stood under the snowy shade of a pine. Hands crossed across her chest, the Seeker watched Zarreth handle his staff and levitating spell-book as he, Solas and the others worked over a power-infusing spell-chain, that was meant to power the Mark. It was clear to see that he loved the magic, loved flexing his control over it. The was no Andrastian modesty in the flicks of the mage's staff. No obeisance.

The mage's eyes were hooded, sly – he would notice Cassandra's observations and his gaze slid across the gathered Templars and mages alike, scanning and calculating. Almost as if the Herald knew something that she did not: about the situation, them, the Breach. Chin perched on a new, iron head of a staff, he would discuss matters with Solas in a hushed whisper – a sign of familiarity that she knew was unavailable to her.

Whatever her doubts was, the sealing of the Breach, under Solas' orchestration, went almost disappointingly smooth. If the Herald was in pain during the feat, when the infusion spell ripped into his Mark, he didn't betray it – with the combined powers of the mages' chain, it seemed as simple as closing another rift. When they got on their feet after the final blast of the collapsing Fade maelstorm, things were once more right in the world. The pieces scattered were assembled together, and she, Cassandra, could finally breath.

The Herald, in return, looked like a fox that got into the hen-house.

And then, the celebrations hit the village. People couldn't contain the relief that was granted after nearly two months of fearful anticipations of worse to come, both in demon and human form. With everyone's spirits lifted, ale spilled about, the dances took from the tavern into the streets of Haven, and even Zarreth himself took it to juggling fireballs in front of drunk, but jolly Templar neophytes.

Still, as she watched from a corner of the overcrowded tavern, something was amiss and skewed. Not only with her, but even with the air itself. The feeling persisted, and only took a more firm grip when the mage excused himself, downed a full mug, and walked out, looking over his shoulder.

"Something wrong, Herald?"

Leliana solidified out of thin air, it seemed. Her sudden appearance by Zarreth's side made him tense, but as soon as he recognized the spymaster, he relaxed and slumped back over the stone railings of the ledge he stood at.

"No. A bit tired from all those tricks", the mage turned his head and admitted softly. Looking at Leliana remained vaguely painful for him - the memory of her desiccated, mummified visage from the possible future was still too vivid in Zarreth's mind. The smooth skin and relaxed, almost shy expression of the usually auster spymaster brimmed with a dread of illusion now, ready to fall apart at any moment. The scenery Zarreth was observing earlier was better, but he continued to watch Leliana out of the corner the corner of the eye, as she'd settled beside him.

A rustle of feathers announced a crow hovering near them – it stretched sharp claws out, perched on the rogue's bracer and let out a hoarse "caw'. The bird's eyes, shiny like a black bead, stared intelligently at Zarreth, the world reflecting in all its tiniest glory. It was unbearable, the mage decided.

"It's beautiful", Zarreth's words ripped through with a gust of vapor, surprising even himself with unwanted sincerity. "Everything is just, so... I feel too small to even take it in. The mountains, these trees, the sea crushing against the pebble shore at Storm Coast, the sounds of Hinterlands and the elven ruins of the Plains... The way light ushers through foliage..."

Leliana noted how the mage grabbed the robe by his chest and massaged it, as if trying to clear away pain. She could understand what this cryptic admission made, and as with many things recently, it added a crack to her already breaking heart. For someone who had spent most of their life in lockdown, inside the same stone walls, polished smooth into inescapable familiarity, it must have been too much. All of it, disintegrating any feeling of foundation or sense of place.

Zarreth's senses were sharpened: everything obviously a discovery for them man, and yet, he held up, rarely showing the renown Circle panic of being overwhelmed. Every bite of the world, though, weighed him down with a desire for more - with a terror of it being taken away. Now he had fully encountered the curse of possessions. Ones that keep you awake at night, fearful for what is yours. And as far as the Inquisition went... His possessions might not have been entirely material, but it made the possibility of loosing them all the worse.

"Yes", Leliana agreed. "This is a world worth protecting and saving, Herald", bright eyes under the hood, sparkling like stars with a cold glint of faith.

Zarreth's teeth, irregular like pieces of shattered glass, barred in a restrained, sarcastic snarl. At times, Leliana wondered, what happened to the mage that left him with this silently smoldering wrath that any, except the most dense, could perceive.

"Ah, yes. Though, Leliana", the pyromancer licked his lips, smacking around her name. "I often find myself thinking: if I'm protecting this world, for whom then? Is this a world that I need to protect? Does this world need-... What if-"

He stammered and trailed off, unable to finish the thought, then stared at the Mark on his hand. It still remained a mystery – even though the Breach was closed, it stayed. Did it mean that there still was more? Was there still _need_ for him? "Does this world have a place for me after the Rifts are gone?"

"It's our duty to protect the innocent people".

Leliana never took Zarreth for someone to feel sensitive about their deeds and place in the world. If anything, he showed remarkable resilience and vigor, commanding his will despite the obviously poor circumstances, taking up the task to make decisions and pay for them. There was impulsive in the mage's demeanor, but it had been...violent. Not a quiet introspection and doubt that she'd now encountered. It bothered her, and she listened intently to the man's words. Hard as it was to admit, now, especially after that victorious sealing of the Breach, they relied on Trevelyan. His outlook was important, and now he demonstrated concerns beyond her reach as a spymaster.

"Innocence is overrated. We hear no end of it, of the poor little "_innocents_", and then here I am, the blight that the Maker sent to punish humanity!", Trevelyan sneered. He then turned around abruptly, facing Leliana, arms spread theatrically for a few seconds, and then drooping in mock defeat. "I've been taught the Chants, sister. It says everything pretty clear, about the sins and the Black city, and Maker's ire, the curse placed on the world in form of our magic. What a choice for a prophet, don't you agree? What a choice to save "innocents" - doesn't the Maker care for their corruption?"

The mage loomed over the edge again, grabbing snow from the the stone pillars of the ledge. It was fresh and crisp. As he clenched it in his gloved fist, it did not condense, but in steady, poured out like sand - crystalline dry. The way his control seemed to slip away with every passing hour of the festivities. The crow left Leliana's brace and flew away, quickly becoming a dark spot against the backdrop of the mountains.

The rogue's grip on his shoulder was firm – an acknowledgment of struggle from one soldier to another. Grizzled, that's what she was behind that lovely facade. Grizzled and ruthless, but with a core that yearned for songs and mystique. She tucked her ginger hair behind an ear, further down the hood, and let go of Zarreth.

"You're doing good, Herald. You give people freedom and hope. That is the highest calling of any man, is it not?"

"_Man, not weapon_", Zarreth thought, studying the melting snowflakes on his palm. He opened his mouth, silently, gulping air like a fish, before actual words came out. Leliana could keep a secret, could she? She had to know. She'd proven herself capable - it was the least he could offer to her, after witnessing the future of Redcliffe.

However... He couldn't tell her that the war was all he had. This war where they lamented the "innocents" caught on the crossroads of "madness", was his only chance of continuing to live as a an actual person. Zarreth owed his magic and Fade to those rebels who have had enough of the Maker-forsaken Circles, whose eyes grew dim and blind in the dungeons, spirits and selves confined for no other reason than a millenia-long struggle for power. He owed it all to himself, to the day he took a step on the path towards breaking the Ostwick Circle along with the other conspirators.

No. This war must go on and he should see to it. It needed more fuel, more men and women drawn into the whirlpool of disaster. Zarreth was certain that change didn't come on it's own - it needed blood to grease the gears and keep them turning until the leash was torn apart. Only like this. True victory was forged in blood and fear, it should be taken, and never handed down.

He will give them reason to _fear _and _respect _what his is, not to pat him on the shoulder for defying those expectations. Fereldans could continue lying down with their mabari hounds, but he was no dog.

"When we were in Val Royeaux, at the Summer Bazaar, there were gallows set up, right around the shops", Zarreth began, focusing on the flecks of a gathering blizzard in the distance. Feeling Leliana's gaze burning his temple, the mage titled his body to face her. The scar-tissue crossing from lips to eyes, down the jaws and over the nose, moved like rocking ways as he spoke, voice even and light - too much for the manner of words he spoke. "I saw them straight away. Big, sturdy ones, the nooses set up and waiting. Couldn't look anywhere else, really, not at the merchants, or the flourish. And when I saw and heard the Lord Seeker, and his Templars..."

Zarreth shook his head and snorted, amused at his past self.

"I was so damn certain they were going to grab me and shove my neck in the noose. Couldn't think of anything else really - just me dangling there under the applause from the denizens. Our Lady Seeker, you know, she reprimanded me for being so snarky with Lucius - she had no idea I was a hair away from torching the place and running".

Running. Something that he had denied himself for years. Memories still sharp, the only possessions he was allowed to own, stored deep - each a gem to be marveled during the recess in the endlessly bleak routine. The way frost draws ornaments on the dirty windows of the Circle's winter herbarium, the glass blind from fog, promising just the vague shapes of a landscape behind it... the creak of crisp snow under armored feet, the crack of steel plates as gauntlet-ed fingers form a fist or curl around a hilt... the winter light is weak, and there's no running under that blood-framed steel eye, the heavy breath, even if he sees - he sees a crack in the frosted glass. Avert, sneak, dissolve - only like that. Pluck the grass, but remember, it's none different from you. Head always on the block, waiting for the sword.

"There's a number of ways a mage can die in Free Marches, unless he's a hedge witcher, ey. In the Circle, as an enchanter or Tranquil - to old age, being possessed and turned abomination during a failed Harrowing. In the gallows or on the block, if offense is worse than the one that evokes Tranquility - apostasy or malefaction. The luckiest may perish on the battlefield, when conscripted to do combat magicks for a Bann or teyrn. Some silly ones die under a Templar, the pretty kind, thinking they could trade dignity for life", the pyromancer listed off death all the while laughter bloomed behind them. Leliana remained grimly silent. "None of these give you a real say on the matter of your demise".

Zarreth sipped air through clenched teeth, feeling the cold tear at his throat. Did Leliana get what he alluded to? Slavery was actually a more kind fate. Slaves were valuable, they could breed, they could buy themselves out - their minds weren't stripped for disobedience. They hadn't a bruiser keep vigilance over their every waking hour. Slaves could experience the world of their masters, more importantly. From a position of subservience, but none the less - physical, actual experience. The mage had heard that in many corners of Thedas cruelty towards slaves, the likes of extreme corporal punishment and solitary confinement, was condemned. He found it ironic, that the Fereldans and Free Marchers, and the Empire as well, didn't extend such humanism to the likes of himself.

"Tell me, Leliana - will these people fight for my freedom and life, as did I for theirs? That's what I'd like to know. Will they offer me the same..._devotion_, after the Mark is gone?" He slightly backed away, hand clutching the spellbook at his belt.

"I... I can't say".

That was truthful, at least. The spymaster wasn't pulling any wool over his eyes. She was just as clueless. However, how would she know that he won't give up everything he gathered. That nothing would make him part with the belongings he acquired, the memories, the sights and sounds, the first hints of being something more than a delayed catastrophe. A freedom to choose. More importantly, Zarreth didn't intend to part with the power that danced at his fingertips – knowledge and skill that blended together to give him an ability to command Fade itself. "_Did the Empire and Chantry expect something else_?", he wondered.

Zarreth's expression softened, as his hand brushed Leliana's side, in an attempt of consolation. Then, abruptly, a sneer crept up his face, twisting around the pallid threads to open into a dark rip of a grin. Leliana's heart beat stronger, pumping adrenaline - the sudden change in the Herald's demeanor set fear into her. That look from within sunken eye sockets, a heavy draping of ill-willed determination, she knew very well of Trevelyan. It promised nothing good.

"When the Circles are reinstated, I'll choose how I'll die", he said.

A second later, the mage's ominous tone sprung into cheery greeting, as Cassandra stalked into view, hailing Leliana and the Herald. Zarreth's twitching jaw muscle relaxed into a fake joy that didn't reach the pyromancer's eyes.

"Cassandra, well, what a pleasant surprise!"

Leliana, however, still stood dumbstruck. The feeling of dread that filled the short promise of the Herald nearly knocked her down, off her feet, for the vindictive threat which lay in them, was practically palpable. Then, it happened - a momentary wave of nausea washed over the rogue, as something akin to precognition hit Leliana with full force, staggering her into an almost prophetic vision.

She had seen it – ash and grime clinging to the Herald, the shadow of a pyre unfolding behind his armor-clad back, the smoke heavy with grease and despair... The cleansing vortex of fire he had weaved before, now devouring ravenously everything around the mage in its expansion. People he was supposed to protect rising up to the sky as cinders, sacrifices to a twisted hunger that they (she?) failed to sate. Standing proud and ragged to the bone - a slit in a dragon's glowing iris - upon the ever-flowing, merciless flame at his command. Fire, death, ash. Trees like black broken bones, cities hollowed out like corpses... And beyond it, the curiosity in Zarreth's yellow, penetrative glare over the suffering that played out, the throes of agony as Thedas burned.

The spymaster shook her head, clearing what had been... a vision? Unwitting realization? She never experienced anything like it, and the clarity terrified her even more than what she had perceived. "Could it be... the future we are building right now?" She darted aside, pushing past Cassandra, deaf to her questions. Whatever it was, a trick of the mind, over-exhaustion or worse, she had to get away. Maker didn't speak to flustered fools.

Cassandra raised an eyebrow when Leliana walked by, unresponsive to the greeting, but decided against following her.

"The Heavens are scarred, but Solas convinced me that the Breach is sealed", she announced to the mage as they were left alone at the ledge. "Some rifts linger, but... this is a victory".

The Seeker allowed herself a small, reassuring smile.

"Words of your heroism are spreading as we speak".

"Heroism. The majority of those who speak the words don't know what it means", the Herald chuckled.

"You're judging this too personally", Cassandra replied. "We needed you, and we still do".

"I like such pragmatism", the mage's look darkened.

"I... we've yet to understand how the Breach came to be, and more trouble will surely rise, but these are strange days. More are to come..."

As she spoke, she saw Trevelyan pay less attention to her, and more to the mountains ahead, eyes squinting to see in the distance.

"You're more than right, Lady Seeker", voice gravel-tinged with concern, the mage pointed with his staff to the North. "It's already caught up to us.


End file.
